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papiar  aat  ImprlmAa  sont  fiimia  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'iliustration.  aoit  par  la  sacond 
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pramiira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'iliustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 

Un  das  symboias  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
darni*ra  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha,  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbols  — ^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE",  la 
aymbola  y  signifia  "FIN". 

• 

Las  cartas,  planchas,  tablaaux,  ate,  pauvant  Atra 
filmte  A  das  taux  da  reduction  diff«rents. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  ast  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
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da  I'angia  supAriaur  gaucha.  da  gauche  A  droite, 
at  da  haut  an  baa.  an  pranant  la  nombre 
d'imagas  nAcassaira.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
illustrant  la  mAthoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

The  Life  and  Poems  of  Theodore  Win- 
THROP.     Edited  by  his  Sister.     i2mo.     $1.50 

WINTHROP'S   PROSE   WORKS. 

{Leisure-Hour  Series) 

CECIL  dref.me, ?£/////  Portrait 

JOHN    BRENT 

EDWIN    BROTHERTOFT 

THE  CANOE   AND   THE   SADDLE 

LIFE    IN    THE    OPEN    AIR,   AND 
OTHER   PAPERS.  ' 


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THK 


LIFE    AND    POEiMS 


or 


THKODORE     WINTJIKOP 


EDITED  BY  HIS  SISTER 


WITH    PORTRAIT 


NEW    YORK 


HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

1884 


Copyright,    1884, 
By   henry  holt  AND  COMPANY. 


S.  Johnlavd  Stereotype  Foundry, 
Suffolk  Co.,  N.  y. 


PREFACE. 


^ 


This  Memorial  of  Theodore  Wiiithrop  has 
been  prepared,  first  for  those  who  loved  him 
and  valued  his  friendship,  but  wliose  remem- 
brance of  his  life  and  deatii  is  beginning  to 
lade  with  the  progress  of  time;  and  next  for 
the  Young  People  of  America,  to  whom  the 
story  is  a  new  one,  but  none  the  less  good  for 
them  to  hear.  Most  of  all  for  thoughtful 
young  men  who  have  high  aims  like  his,  who 
have  felt  the  pangs  of  discouragement  and 
delay,  and  who  will  fmd  sympathy  in  his  life's 
experience.  Though  a  quarter  of  a  century 
lias  vanished,  this  record  in  his  own  words 
of  struggle  and  victory  remains  undimmed  by 
the  lapse  of  years,  and  may  still  shed  light 
and  hope  into  many  hearts. 

"  One  generation  passeth  away  and  another 
generation  cometh,  hut  the  earth  abideth  forever T 


186903 


i  i 


CONTENTS. 


Chap. 

I.  CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH  .        .        .        .        .1 

II.  EUEOPEAN  TRAVEL 31 

TIL  MANHOOD 72 

IV.  THE  TROPICS 92 

V.  THE  WILDERNESS 137 

VL  DARIEN 172 

VIL  TWO  WORLDS igc 

VIII.  LAW  AND  AUTHORSHIP 2n( 

IX.  THE  WAR 28;i 


THE  LIFE  AND  POEMS 


or 


THEODORE    WINTHROP. 


CHAPTER  I. 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 


A  NEW  generation,  with  all  its  vivid  personal  life, 
-^  has  siH-ung  up  since  the  close  of  our  great  Civil 
War.  As  in  the  "  sprout  lands  "  of  our  mountain  sides, 
this  active  pushing  young  growth  is  fast  covering  the 
blackened  burnt  districts,  and  the  charred  stumps, 
that  still  show  where  the  giants  of  the  forests,  pillars 
of  flame,  fell  before  the  blast.  Though  in  the  heart 
of  our  re-united  country,  the  warnings  and  the  lessons, 
both  of  failure  and  success,  are  still  unforgotten,  the 
new  men,  full  of  their  own  affairs,  can  never  know  the 
story  as  those  knew  it,  who  lived  through  that  long 
agony,  that  new  birth.  The  memory  of  our  second 
struggle,  like  that  of  our  first  Revolution,  grows  more 
holy  as  its  noise  dies  away,  and  yet  a  thousand  details 
will  fade  in  a  few  short  years  into  the  Hght  of  common 
history.  So  much,  of  late,  has  this  been  felt,  that  th«re 
is  everywhere  an  effort  to  grasp  these  fleeting  shadows, 
and  to  fix  them  by  the  photography  of  literature.  Much 
has  already  been  lost,  that  research  will,  by  and  by, 
vainly  strive  to  regain.  Already,  those  who  waited 
for  that  day,  who  saw  it  and  were  glad,  are  beginning 


HIS   BIRTH. 


[1828 


m 


to  die,  and  in  a  little  while  there  will  be  none  of  them 
left  to  tell  the  tale  as  it  should  be  told. 

Among  the  first  of  that  "cloud  of  witnesses"  who 
made  history  for  us  in  those  days  (so  late,  yet  so  long 
ago)  Theodore  Winthrop  fell  at  Great  Bethel,  in  Vii'- 
ginia,  on  June  10th,  1861,  before  our  country  was  half 
awakened  to  the  mighty  work  before  it,  or  knew  the 
strength,  born  of  sorrow,  that  was  to  come  in  time  of 
need.  Love  of  country,  where  it  becomas  a  passion, 
may  have  smouldered  through  years  of  quiet  and  safety, 
but  when  the  hour  strikes,  and  danger  threatens  the 
Mother  Land,  it  leaps  into  a  blaze,  and  becomes  a 
beacon  on  the  hill  top,  a  prairie  fire,  that  runs  over 
the  broad  land  from  East  to  West.  The  story  of  Theo- 
dore Winthrop's  life,  and  of  his  death,  coming  as  it 
did  at  the  opening  of  the  war,  and  making  him  a  type 
and  ideal  for  the  ardent  youth  of  that  day,  are  among 
the  nobler  things  that  should  not  be  forgotten.  He 
was  the  representative  man  of  the  hour,  the  representa- 
tive of  the  promise,  beauty,  culture,  and  patriotism  that 
were  crowding  to  the  front.  To  some  he  had  seemed 
a  dreamy  poet  only,  to  others  a  man  of  society,  to 
others  a  wandering,  aimless  traveler.  Few  knew  his 
love  for  his  country  till  he  died  for  Her.  Then  they 
believed  it,  and  the  belief  grew  like  a  creed,  like  a  new 
religion,  in  the  warm  air  of  that  summer  of  1861. 


I 


Theodore  "Winthrop  was  born  on  Sept.  22d,  1828. 
His  father  was  Francis  Bayard  Winthrop,  a  direct  de- 
scendant of  Governor  Winthrop  of  Massachusetts,  and 
of  his  son.  Governor  Winthrop  of  Connecticut,  of  whose 
claims  to  distinction  it  is  not  necessary  to  speak.  There 
was  also  a  third  Governor  Winthrop,  and  then  the  fam- 


M-r.  1] 


FA  MIL  Y  HIS  TOR  Y. 


8 


I 


il.y  rested  from  its  governors,  and  had  a  quiet  period 
of  comfort,  and  j^robably  of  conservative  obscurity,  for 
little  is  recorded  of  them  for  some  time ;  though  Wait 
Still  Winthrop  was  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Mass- 
achusetts in  1708,  and  there  was  a  Prof.  AVinthrop  of 
Harvard  College,  in  the  chair  of  Mathematics  and  Nat- 
ural Philosophy,  from  1738  to  1779,  a  friend  and  cor- 
respondent of  Franklin,  and  Y.  R.  S.  Theodore  Win- 
throp's  mother  was  Elizabeth  D  wight  Woolsey,  daughter 
of  William  Walton  AVoolsey,  one  of  the  staunch  old  mer- 
chants of  New  York  who  by  their  probity  and  energy 
made  the  city  so  strong  and  great.  She  was  one  of  the 
numerous  descendants,  on  her  mother's  side,  of  the  re- 
doubtable President  Edwards,  whose  bold  metaphys- 
ical thought  started  New  England  thinkers  upon  a 
track  he  little  dreamed  of,  and  whose  unassailable  logic 
taught  them  their  only  possible  tactics,  that  of  denying 
his  premises.  Her  mother  was  Elizabeth  Dwight,  sis- 
ter of  Timothy  Dwight,  President  of  Yale  College,  a 
poet,  theologian  and  scholar,  a  great  man  in  his  day, 
and  a  worthy,  though  not  an  original,  thinker,  but  a 
disciple  and  imitator  of  Edwards,  his  progenitor.* 

William  Walton  Woolsey,  whose  family  came  from 
Dosoris,  Long  Island,  though  himself  an  Old  School 
Presbyterian,  had  for  An  ancestor  one  Benjamin  Wool- 
sey, who  was  drummed  out  of  a  small  town  in  Long 
Island  for  the  crime  of  being  an  Episcopal  clergyman 


*  The  family  of  Francis  Bayard  Winthrop  consisted,  at  the  time 
of  Theodore's  birth,  of  two  sons  by  a  former  marriage,  and  two 
daughters,  the  children  of  Elizabeth  Woolsey.  His  brother  Wil- 
liam and  a  sister  were  born  afterwards,  besides  two  children  who 
died.  There  wore  living  at  the  time  of  Winthrop's  death  a  brother 
and  three  sisters,— Elizabeth,  Laura,  William,  and  Sarah,  and 
two  half-brothers,  Charles  and  Edward. 


FAMILY  HISTORY. 


[1828 


\  ' 


lil! 
Iill 


and  wishing  to  settle  there.  The  Woolseya  remained 
at  Dosoris,  where  they  have  still  an  old  graveyard,  and 
became  one  of  those  "  good  old  Long  Island  families," 
upon  whom  New  York  has  always  rested  her  flank 
with  safety. 

But,  though  Puritans  of  the  Puritans,  some  of  the 
family  valued  still  more  their  descent  from  the  Hu- 
guenot brothers,  Antony  and  Leonard  Lispenard,  who 
came  from  their  "own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the 
waters,"  after  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes, 
and  settled  New  Rochelle;  also  being  valued  citizens 
of  New  York,  where  they  owned  property,  and  after 
whom  Antony,  Leonard  and  Lispenard  streets  were 
named.  The  great  -  grandmother  of  Theodore  Win- 
throp  was  Cornelia  Lispenard,  and  her  daughter,  Alice 
Marston,  was  his  grandmother;  a  lady  whose  uncle, 
John  Marston,  bought  and  colonized  an  island  some- 
where near  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  died  there,  not  long 
sifter  the  failure  of  his  enterprise. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  the  blood  of  these  old  rangers 
and  colonizers  was  hot  within  him,  and  prevented  Theo- 
dore Winthrop  from  remaining  quiet  for  any  length 
of  time  in  his  restless  j^outh.  Yet  it  was  an  impulse 
that  he  shared  with  most  men  of  the  Northern  races,  and 
which,  since  the  days  of  the  old  Sea  Kings,  and  even 
from  pre-historic  times,  has  kept  them  perpetually 
"  walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  earth,  and  going  up  and 
down  on  it,"  like  Satan  of  old. 

Genealogy  contains  too  many  unknown  quantities 
to  make  it  an  exact  science,  if  indeed  it  can  ever  be 
a  science  at  all.  That  we  find  deep  truths,  as  weU 
as  mysteries,  in  heredity,  no  one  can  doubt  who 
sees  that  the  same  nose,  and  the  same  temper,  re- 


Mr.  1] 


FAMILY  !^  I  STORY. 


appear  at  intervals  in  families,  to  the  great  regret  of 
everybody.  But  when  it  is  considered  that  we  have 
all  eight  great-grandparents  and  sixteen  progenitors 
of  one  more  generation  back,  it  does  not  seem  as  if 
a  man  could  get  much  out  of  any  one  of  them.  The 
distinguished  Jonathan  Edwards  is  said  to  have  any- 
where from  fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand  lineal 
descendants  now  living,  all  proud  of  their  descent. 
Though  they  are  called  a  willful  race,  how  much  of 
the  peculiar  characteristics  of  the  great  Calvinist  is  it 
likely  that  each  one  of  these  can  possess  ?  Have  they 
not  each  thii'ty-one  other  ancestors  ?  Surely,  many  of 
them  have  strayed  from  his  guidance,  and  some  are 
even  said  to  belong  to  "  The  Society  for  the  Preven- 
tion of  Cruelty  to  Children  " ! 

In  New  England  the  reverence  for  family  is  deeper 
than  anywhere  in  this  country.  People  trace  with 
genuine  and  proper  pride  their  descent  from  the  Pil- 
grim Fathers  or  the  Revolutionary  Heroes,  while  at 
the  Ear  West,  the  opposite  pole  of  the  magnet,  they 
say,  with  rough  good  sense,  "No  daddyism!  Who  are 
you,  sir?" 

The  Wiuthrops  kept  up  their  old  traditions,  though 
somewhat  retiring  from  public  view  after  their  brilliant 
beginning,  and  were  little  heard  of  in  the  Revolution- 
ary days.  In  course  of  time,  these  Puritans  became 
Episcopalians,  as  the  Woolseys,  who  began  in  the 
English  Church,  became  Presbyterian^  and  Congrega- 
tionalists.  In  after  years  they  came  again  to  the  front, 
and  we  hear  of  Thomas  Lindall  Winthrop,  Lieutenant- 
Governor  of  Massachusetts,  and  his  distinguished  son, 
Robert  C.  Winthrop,  and  among  the  Woolseys,  Presi- 
dent Theodore  Woolsey  of  Yale  College.    Scholars  and 


FAMILY  HISTORY. 


[1830 


literaiy  men  were  frequently  cropping  out  in  the  strata 
of  both  families,  such  as  President  S.  W.  Johnson  of 
Columbia  College,  Theodore  Winthrop's  elder  brother, 
a  theological  i^rofessor,  and  many  among  the  Dwights. 
Thus  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  was  born  into  what 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  admirably  calls  the  "  Brahmin 
Caste  of  New  England,"  and  might  well  have  had  an 
hereditary  literary  ambition.  He  was  named  from  his 
uncle  Theodore  Woolsey,  who  himself  was  called  after 
Theodore  Dwight,  his  mother's  brother,  who  was  au- 
thor, editor,  and  a  man  of  influence  in  Hartford, 
Connecticut. 

The  family  traditions  were  aU  of  culture.  His  fa- 
ther, Francis  Bayard  Winthrop,  was  a  man  cJ*  refined 
taste,  a  graduate  of  Yale  College,  and  owned  what  was 
called,  fifty  years  ago,  a  fine  library,  of  about  two  thou- 
sand volumes  selected  by  himself,  besides  a  small  col- 
lection of  good  pictures  and  engravings,  in  a  time  when 
such  things  were  rare.  He  was  an  enthusiast  in  Art 
and  Literature,  and  loved  Music  and  the  Theater. 
His  children  could  see  upon  the  walls  Alston's  Angel 
and  Both's  Sunshine,  and  browsed  freely  in  the  library, 
till  books  became  their  familiar  friends.  Their  father 
was  one  of  the  firr^t  persons  to  recognize  the  genius  of 
Hawthorne  on  reading  his  "  Twice  Told  Tales,"  in  the 
winter  of  1839-40.  These  pictures  and  engravings  from 
the  old  masters  familiarized  the  children  with  forms  of 
beauty,  and  an  old-fashioned  garden,  with  flowers  and 
lilac  bushes  and  pear-trees,  gave  them  a  pleasant  play- 
ground. But  their  happiest  recollections  hnger  round 
their  woodland  walks  with  their  father.  He  was  a  man 
of  delicate  health — (delicate  and  fond  of  reading  when 
a  boy,  when  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  romping 


JEt.  3-61 


WOODLAND    WALKS. 


and  shooting  arrows  at  the  eyes  of  the  old  Governor's 
portraits),  a  lawyer  who  Imd  retired  from  business  in 
New  York  with  reduced  fortune,  to  hve  quietly  at 
New  Haven,   and   educate    his   children.      Here    he 
bought  a  roomy  house  in  Wooster  St.,   of  the  old- 
fashioned  New  England  type,  with  four  rooms  on  a 
floor,  and  a  hall  through  the  middle,  and  a  garret 
(not  an  attic),  with  great  oak  beams  overhead,  cob- 
webs, dark  corners,  and  a  mysterious  cock-loft.     He 
was  hospitable,  and  charming  in  his  own  family,  to 
whom  he  was  a  true  father  (one  of  the  rarest  beings 
in  the  world),  and  not  a  man  whom  they  saw,  sleepy 
and  harassed,  once  or  twice  a  week.     He  had  a  won- 
derful croon  that  always  put  the  babies  to  sleep,  he 
danced  quadrilles,   sang  songs,  played  games.,   told 
wonderful  tales  in  the  twHight,  and  took  them  for 
long  walks  in  the  woods.     There  were  woods  in  those 
days  not  too  far  off.     His  health  required  these  walks, 
and  the  children  were  usually  his  companions.     They 
learned  to  love  Nature;  birds  and  wild  flowers  were 
their  friends;  they  learned  to  know  Trees,  rare  but 
necessary  knowledge;  they  climbed  the  great  precipi- 
tous bluffs  of  East  and  West  Rock,  which  stand  over 
against  New  Haven,  like  Arthur's  Seat  by  Edinboro', 
and  wandered  along  where  the  quiet  stream  of  the 
Quinippiac  winds  among  its  hayricks.     The  hayricks 
stand  there  stiU— the  crop  has  never  failed.     A  rarer 
pleasure  was  a  long  drive,  taking  their  mother  with 
them,  through  the  laurel  lanes  to  some  lovely  lake 
among  the  hills,  where  they  dined  "on  dainty  chicken, 
snow-white  bread,"  and  spent  a  whole  summer's  day 
of  delight.     Thus  the  children  found  eyes,  without 
looking  through  the  spectacles  of  science,  and  knew 


i 
1 

1 

1      1 
1 

t 

.. 

1 

; 

1 

1 

t 
t 
t 

i 

\ 

'•   ,  f 

'  I 

i 

1 

' 

\ 

8 


THE   LONG    WHARF. 


[1831-4 


perhaps  almost  as  much  about  plants  as  Solomon, 
without  effort  of  study.  New  Haven  in  those  days 
was  a  quiet,  lovely  little  town,  scholarly  and  demure, 
under  the  lofty  arch  of  whose  elms  strayed  the  college 
boys,  studious  or  otherwise,  the  professor,  stern  of  ex- 
terior, and  the  dreaming  school  girl.  No  sound  of 
factories  disturbed  the  silence,  the  railroad  was  not 
dreamed  of,  the  steamboat  had  but  lately  begun  to 
churn  up  the  waters  of  the  little  bay.  The  town 
seemed  asleep,  save  when  the  buzzing  boys  poured 
out  of  chapel  or  recitation. 

There  are  few  things  more  perfect  of  theii*  kind  than 
one  of  those  avenues  of  elms  in  the  old  New  England 
towns,  whose  leafy  Gothic  arches  and  sunny  shadowed 
grass,  dwell  in  the  minds  of  her  children  as  sweet  and 
poetic  memories  that  come  back  to  them  again  and 
again,  wherever  they  go,  and  touch  them  with  home- 
sickness on  the  Lung'  Arno  or  Unter  den  Linden. 
Theodore  Winthrop  grew  up  in  one  of  these  beauti- 
ful old  towns,  and  wandered  in  childhood  and  youth 
under  the  great  elms  around  the  Green,  till  they  en- 
tered into  his  heart  and  became  a  part  of  himself. 

The  Long  "Wharf  was  also  one  of  his  haunts,  where 
the  town  boys  were  always  scrambling  ;ibout,  where 
their  imaginations  were  kindled  by  the  sight  of  the 
ships  that  traded  to  far  countries,  yes,  even  as  far  as 
the  "West  Stingys,"  and  from  whose  cai'goes  stray 
gifts  of  oranges  and  cocoanuts  sometimes  found  their 
way  to  the  pockets.  The  tarry  smell,  the  sailor  talk, 
the  molasses  barrels,  the  chance  sailing  in  smaller 
craft,  the  handling  of  a  rope  or  an  oar,  were  all  de- 
lightful and  full  of  a  free  life.  There  has  always  been 
a  strong  attraction  between  wharfs  and  small  boys. 


JEt.  3-6] 


/7/v\S7'   SCHOOL    DAYS. 


9 


Doubtless  they  found  it  so  in  the  Pirtious,  yea,  in  Tyre 
and  Sidon.  The  muddy  httlo  harbor  was  frozen  in 
winter,  so  that  sometimes  th(;  only  line  of  steamboats 
was  shut  out,  but  it  became  a  fine  place  for  skating,  a 
favorite  sport  of  AVinthrop's.  Though  not  robust,  ho 
was  active  and  sprightly,  and  good  at  all  the  athletic 
si)orts  then  in  vogue.  Shells  and  canoes  did  not  tlien 
exist,  but  he  was  a  good  oarsman  in  the  method  of 
the  day.  No  one  knew  when  or  how  he  learned  to 
row  and  swim,  thest;  things  come  by  nature  to  most 
active  boys.  There  are  not  many  anecdotes  2)reserved 
of  his  childhood.  He  was  a  quiet,  reticent  boy,  not 
precocious,  yet  uncommonly  intelligent,  fair  and  deli- 
cate looking,  with  chestnut  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and 
was  always  scrupulously  neat.  His  father  writes  of 
him,  at  two  years  old,  as  "his  golden-haired  boy,  with 
a  jncture  book  under  each  arm." 

No  dirt  ever  seemed  to  stick  to  him,  even  on  the 
Long  Wharf,  while  his  younger  brother,  who  kept 
everybody  laughing  at  his  jokes,  had  the  usual  boyish 
hatred  of  the  "harmless  necessary,"  soaj).  Another 
brother,  the  eldest  child  of  his  parents,  was  so  preco- 
cious that  he  wrote  Latin  verses  at  the  age  of  nine, 
and  kept  little  note  books  of  historical  reading.  He 
succumbed,  as  was  natural,  to  some  childish  disease, 
and  Theodore  was  given  his  name,  and  became  a  great 
darling  in  consequence.  The  "  first  Theodore,"  as  he 
was  called,  was  spoken  of  by  the  children  with  awe 
and  reverence  as  a  wonder. 

The  good  old  New  England  dame-school  was  an 
institution  as  nearly  perfect  as  is  possible  with  things 
below,  and  into  the  kind  arms  of  one  of  these  Theo- 
dore was  early  received,  to  learn  his  A,  B,  C.     Good 


lii 


10 


THE    DAMli    SCrrOOL. 


[1831-4 


Mrs.  Bonticue  (or,  as  the  children  called  her,  Miss 
Buniiickyer),  wuh  the  widow  of  a  sea  captain.     It  is  a 
well-known  fact  that  a  sea  captain  and  his  wife  are 
seldom  seen  together  on  this  earth,  and  to  this  rule 
she  was  no  excei)tion,  thouj^h  the  portrait  of  the  de- 
ceased, ruddy  and  promising^  long  life,  hung  in  her 
low,  snug  parlor,  along  with  much  coral  and  many 
shells   and   ostrich   eggs.     Mrs.   Bonticue  had  never 
heard  of  Pestallozi,  much  less  of  a  Kindergarten;  but 
she  had  it  all  in  her  brain,  and  possessed  the  genius  for 
teaching  little  children  which  must  always  be  inborn. 
Her  school  was  exceptionally  good,  making  allowance 
for  the  bright  halo  that  memory  casts  round  the  pleas- 
ant things  of  childhood.     But  is  it  not  true  that  the 
bitter  hate  of  a  boy  for  his  cruel  teacher,  or  his  con- 
tempt for  an  incompetent  one,  lasts  as  long  as  his  love 
for  a  kind  master,  and  is  equally  founded  on  fact  and 
experience  ?     Children  know  far  more,  and  reason  far 
more,  than  we  elders  think,  who  have  forgotten  our 
childhood;  their  large  eyes  are  terrible,  and  they  know 
their  small  flat  world  far  better  than  we  know  our  big 
round  one.     Good  Mrs.   Bonticue  was  faithful,  she 
was  even  rather  stern,  as  we  thought,  and  did  not 
ignore  the  rod  altogether.     She  sat  erect,  with  snowy 
cap  and  apron,  and  kept  order  and  discipline;  but  she 
was  kind  and  judicious.     The  school-room  was  a  large 
room  at  the  back  of  the  house  (to  us  it  seemed  enor- 
mous), looking  out  on  a  ragged  little  garden,  in  which 
(fortunately  for  us)  the  pear-trees  bore  winter  pears, 
whose  fruit  of  immortal  green  still  puckers  the  mem- 
ory.    In  the  corner  was  a  small  bed  where  a  tired 
little  one  was  sometimes  put  to  sleep,  for  they  were  very 
young  at  school.    At  four  years  of  age  children  were 


^T.  3-6] 


THE   DAME    SCI/OOL. 


11 


expected  to  Icjirn  to  read,  if  i\\vy  wore  not  dunces, 
ftnd  it  did  no  harm  to  the  health  of  any  of  them. 
Before  six  they  were  bound  to  read  lluently,  to  write 
their  names,  and  to  know  a  httle  of  Peter  Parh;y's 
(leography,  Webster's  SpeUiu^^-book,  and  perhaps  a 
trifle  of  OoWsmith's  "History  of  Enjj^land."     At  six 
the  best  girls  could  sew  well,  make  a  shirt,  knit  stock- 
incfs,  and  make  button  holes  such  as  are  seldom  seen 
now.    All  this  was  not  precocity,  but  the  fruit  of  good, 
painstaking  teaching    during   several  years,   for   tlie 
cliildren  entered  the  school  at  three  years  of  age,  or 
even  earlier,  and  they  were  taught  in  a  pleasant  and 
amusing  way.    They  learned  to  sing  pretty  little  songs 
("Mary  had  a  little  lamb,"  was  new  then!),  they  spoke 
"  pieces,"  in  nasal  tones,  but  armed  with  simple  moral, 
about  birds  and  flowers,  or  against  cruelty  to  animals. 
It  was  not  all  sweetness,  however;  there  was  a  hard 
block  of  wood  behind  Madam's  chair,  which  was  a 
stool  of  repentance — there  was  a  ferule  that  could  give 
smart  raps  to  the  little  fingers.     The  most  flagrant  of- 
fenders had  to  stand  in  the  corner,  to  be  "  sissed  at," 
the  boys  with  girls'  bonnets  on,  the  girls  with  boys*  hats 
on;  but  a  still  more  condign  punishment  was  to  be  put 
upon  the  garret  stairs,  a  sort  of  donjon  keep  that 
cowed  the  boldest,  for  at  the  top  of  it  was,  we  knew 
not  what,  a  place   of  crackings   and  rustlings,  and 
hoards  of  strange  things,  where  j^erchance  the  ghost  of 
Capt.  Bonticue  might  walk  in  full  nautical  costume 
with  a  cat-o'-nine  tails.     There  was  a  legend,  however, 
that  a  brave  boy  had  once  dared  to  ascend  those  stau's 
and  had  found — apples !     Good  Mrs.  Bonticue  was  a 
comely  woman,  in  the  prime  of  life,   and  her  two 
daughters  handsome  young  women,  but  all  seemed 


12 


THE    CARBONARI. 


[1835 


old  and  venerable  to  the  children  in  the  happy  place 
where  Theodore's  education  began  so  well.  He  was 
called  the  best  and  brightest  boy  in  the  school. 

Among  the  memories  of  his  childhood,  young  as  he 
was,  may  have  been  the  strange  vision  of  some  dis- 
tinguished exiles,  the  famous  Carbonari,  several  of 
whom  came  to  New  Haven  about  1835,  in  hopes  of 
gaining  a  subsistence  as  teachers  of  Italian  in  Yale 
College.  This  hope  proved  vain,  but  their  coming 
made  quite  an  excitement  in  the  town,  and  they  were 
kindly  welcomed,  and  hospitably  entertained  by  many, 
and  among  others  by  Mr.  Winthrop.  Who  could  re- 
sist that  noble  pitiful  story,  and  the  pleading  of  those 
sad  Italian  eyes,  where  one  could  read  the  tale  of  sev- 
enteen years  of  patient  endurance,  imprisonment,  and 
privation  ?  Theodore  may  have  caught  some  faint  idea 
of  their  pathetic  history,  may  have  had  a  lesson  of  lib- 
erty, a  sense  of  what  it  means  to  lose  it,  a  vague  im- 
pression of  what  it  is  to  suffer  for  one's  country.  For 
the  older  children  at  least,  to  see  these  noble  and  hand- 
some men,  dark  and  gently  mysterious,  to  hear  them, 
gentlemen  of  birth  and  culture,  tell,  in  their  broken 
way,  how  they  passed  long  years  of  their  lives  in  knit- 
ting coarse  stockings  for  the  soldiers,  and  were  thank- 
ful even  for  that  menial  occupation,  to  hear  in  those 
sweet  low  southern  voices  the  ring  of  sharp  pain, 
deadened  by  long-borne  waiting  and  despair,  were 
things  the  children  could  not  easily  forget.  To  have 
a  caressing  hand,  just  unchained,  laid  upon  the  head, 
and  one's  name  spoken  with  tender  Italian  diminu- 
tives, by  those  who  had  lost  home  and  friends,  and  the 
best  of  life  and  youth,  for  pure  patriotism,  was  a  deep 
lesson  that  returned  again  and  again  to  their  mem- 


^^ 


vEt.  8-12] 


HIS   FATHER'S  DEATH. 


18 


ories;  and  when  afterward  they  read  the  wonderful 
narrative  of  Silvio  Pellico,  they  could  fill  up  the  pic- 
ture vrith  the  reality  they  had  seen. 

These  men  found  some  means  to  live,  assisted  per- 
haps by  Italian  friends.  Foresti  was  long  a  respected 
and  successful  teacher  in  New  York,  others  were  artists 
and  teachers  elsewhere,  and  were  finally  amnestied  by 
Victor  Emanuel,  and  returned  to  their  beloved  country, 
for  whom  they  had  suffered  so  much.  Most  of  them 
are  now  dead,  after  a  peaceful  old  age  among  their 
friends  and  families,  and  their  memories  are  adored  in 
their  own  land  as  prophets  and  martyrs.  If  they  had 
not  prepared  the  way,  then  Mazzini,  Cavour,  and  Gari- 
baldi might  never  have  found  that  path  that  led  through 
dark  waters  to  a  United  Italy. 

We  next  find  Theodore  Winthrop  preparing  for  col- 
lege at  the  good  sound  school  of  Silas  French,  where 
he  was  well  thought  of  in  the  class  and  in  the  play- 
ground. At  the  age  of  twelve,  he  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  lose  one  of  his  best  friends,  his  kind  and 
gentle  father,  but  he  was  not  too  young  to  have  had  his 
character  already  biased  by  his  influence.  He  was  of 
aU  the  children  the  one  who  most  resembled  his  father, 
in  manner  as  well  as  in  more  important  characteristics. 
"  The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts,"  and 
although  he  spoke  but  little  of  his  feelings,  it  is  easy 
to  see  from  his  writings  that  the  mysteries  of  life  and 
death  had  early  troubled  his  mind,  and  that  the  loss 
of  his  father  must  have  made  a  d^ep  impression  upon 
him.  Such  things  are  very  strange  and  bitter  to  a  sensi- 
tive child,  ^nd,  as  Tlioreau  says,  "  we  see  but  one  corpse 
in  our  lives." 

His  mother,  left  in  early  middle  life  with  five  chil- 


!!|^ 


1        ! 


u 


HIS  MOTHER. 


[1841 


|:P 


>     i  I 


I  ' 


dren  to  bring  up  on  small  means,  and  with  lit'ie  ad- 
vice or  assistance  from  others,  performed  her  task 
with  patience  an.i  calmness,  and  bore  up  wonder- 
fully under  her  burdens,  as  many  another  noble  wo- 
man has  done.  She  was  always,  in  youth  and  age,  a 
beautiful  woman,  of  an  exquisite  and  refined  appear- 
ance, with  chestnut  hair  and  eyes,  and  the  delicately 
tinted  complexion  that  belongs  to  that  type.  She  was 
spoken  of  by  every  one  who  knew  her  as  a  woman  near 
to  perfection  in  temper  and  character,  of  an  angelic 
gentleness,  mingled  with  spirit;  most  appreciative,  and 
skilled  in  calling  forth  the  best  powers  of  others,  and 
winning  their  confidence.  She  was  a  great  reader, 
loved  flowers  and  gardening,  and  wrote  pretty  verses, 
when  that  accomplishment  was  stiU  uncommon.  Her 
powers  of  quotation  were  immense,  and  Dr.  Woolsey, 
her  brother,  in  a  youthful  poem,  describmg  playfully 
the  family  group,  speaks  of  her  as  in  the  act  of  "  cit- 
ing, quoting  in  other  words."  Always  busy  about 
family  aJBfairs,  she  never  seemed  to  read,  and  was  ac- 
cused of  getting  up  all  the  literature  of  the  day  before 
any  one  rose  in  the  morning,  or  after  bedtime.  To 
which  she  replied,  "Oh,  no!  I  have  used  Bulwer's 
*  Last  of  the  Barons '  to  put  myself  to  sleep  for  the  last 
five  years.*'  The  songs  of  Burns  were  the  cradle  songs 
of  her  children  (for  she  could  sing  sweetly,  and  had 
caught  the  airs  by  ear  from  a  Scotch  relative),  and, 
from  Percy's  "  Reliques  "  down  to  Scott  and  Southey, 
she  trained  them  to  be  familiar  with  the  whole  range 
of  the  best  English  poetry,  with  the  exception  of  Chaucer 
who  had  not  yet  been  interpreted.  Spenser's  '  Faerie 
Queen '  was  one  of  her  greatest  favorites.  She  studied 
with  them  much  history  and  other  literature,  and  there 


i.j 


^T.  15] 


COLLEGE   LIFE. 


li 


was  reading  aloud  in  the  evenings  for  their  father, 
whose  eyesight  was  not  strong. 

Theodore  Winthrop  entered  college  in  1843,  a'^  the  age 
of  fifteen,  with  credit,  and  seemed  to  hold  a  good  place 
there.  Be  that  as  it  may,  "  the  wind's  wiU,"  the  rebel 
nature  of  the  boy,  so  long  dormant,  awoke.  No  ill 
report  had  been  heard  of  by  his  family,  when  a  reck- 
less moment  of  folly  led  to  the  usual  consequences,  he 
broke  away  from  rules,  displeased  authorities,  and  was 
sent  away  from  college.  His  error  was  trifling,  but  no 
doubt  bitter  to  him  and  his  mother  for  the  time.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  the  battle  which  he  had  to  fight 
out  with  himself  and  with  life,  in  which  the  victory 
was  not  fully  gained  till  long  years  after.  He  left 
New  Haven  and  spent  the  winter  of  1844-5  in  Ohio 
with  his  half  brother,  the  Rev.  Edward  Winthrop,  a 
scholarly  man,  who  had  been  valedictorian  of  the  class 
of  1838.  The  little  town  of  Marietta  must  have  been 
dull  enough  then  for  a  place  of  penance,  where  he 
found  no  better  amusement  than  to  spend  the  even- 
ing in  a  grocery  store  with  some  other  boys,  cracking 
nuts,  and  scrambling  eggs  upon  a  stove. 

In  the  spring  he  returned  home,  and  was  admitted 
into  the  next  class,  where  he  soon  won  an  honorable 
position.  It  was  a  noted  class,  this  one  of  '48,  both 
for  its  scholarship  and  its  manliness,  and  he  was  happy 
in  the  companionship  he  found,  and  distinguished  in 
it,  especially  for  Greek  and  composition.  He  was  not 
strong  enough  in  mathematics  to  win  one  of  the  high- 
est places,  but  he  gained  two  scholarships,  an  oration, 
and  many  prizes  for  composition.  His  college  themes 
were  as  usual  upon  didactic  subjects,  and  show  more 
thought  and  reading  than  is  usual  at  his  age.     The 


16 


RELIGIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


[1848 


1'  I 


subject  of  his  Commencement  oration  was  "  The  Study 
of  the  Beautiful  necessary  to  a  Liberal  Education." 
It  was  a  characteristic  choice,  and  the  oration  was 
very  much  admired  by  his  class-mates,  who  thought 
him  a  wonder.  This  little  assemblage  of  his  peers 
voted  him  their  poet  and  philosopher,  in  the  worship 
of  boyish  friendship,  while  he,  with  reciprocal  enthu- 
siasm, deemed  them  the  coming  men,  and  saviors  of 
their  country. 

During  his  coUege  life  he  "  experienced  religion,"  as 
was  then  the  phrase,  and  with  deep  sincerity.  His 
thoughtful  nature  could  hardly  escape  such  a  conver- 
sion at  that  time.  It  was  in  the  air,  and  most  young 
persons  felt  it  more  or  less.  His  religious  fervor  con- 
tinued for  a  long  time,  for  in  such  an  earnest  mind  as 
his  it  could  hardly  fade  into  mere  indifference.  After 
a  while  he  became  emancipated  from  its  narrowness, 
and  emerged  into  the  free  space  of  a  liberal  Christi- 
anity, but  he  did  not  gain  liberty  without  a  bitter  strug- 
gle. Meanwhile  he  went  through  the  usual  phases  of 
religious  excitement;  he  was  often  heard  to  pray  aloud 
in  his  chamber  as  if  in  agony;  he  grew  melancholy  and 
almost  morbid,  and  his  health  began  to  break  down 
under  this  strain,  joined  to  the  eagerness  of  hard  study, 
anxious  as  he  was  to  regain  a  high  position  in  his  col' 
lege.  After  graduating  with  honor  in  1848,  when 
nearly  twenty,  he  resolved  to  remain  at  Yale,  and  pursue 
the  philosophical  course,  under  the  guidance  of  Dr. 
Woolsey,  then  Professor  of  Greek,  and  Prof.  Porter. 
But  his  health  grew  more  and  more  delicate,  his  re- 
ligious excitement  abated,  and  left  him  in  doubt  and 
misery,  and  at  last  he  found  that  he  could  hold  out 
no  longer,  and  determined  to  go  to  Europe,  where 


III 


Ml.  19] 


///S   JOURNAL. 


17 


everybody  who  could  do  so  went  for  health  in  those 
days,  paying,  as  many  a  young  scholar  has  done, 
his  expenses  with  the  proceeds  of  his  scholarship. 
At  what  time  he  had  determined  to  strive  for  literary 
fame  is  not  exactly  known,  but  it  is  certain  that  the 
thought  had  already  dawned  in  his  mind.  In  a  jour- 
nal, kept  through  several  of  these  years,  he  often 
speaks  of  this  ambition  as  his  dearest  one,  and  doubt- 
less the  success  of  his  college  efforts  in  composition 
had  encouraged  him  in  the  idea.  The  journal  begins 
in  July,  1848,  just  before  he  graduated,  and  is  full  of 
his  studies,  of  his  religious  hopes  and  fears,  and  of  his 
affection  for  his  family,  his  instructors,  and  his  college 
friends,  of  keen  introspection  and  self-examination,  to- 
gether with  impressions  of  such  authors  as  Paley  and 
Butler  (dry  bones  for  such  a  sensitive  mind). 

''Friday,  August  25th,  1848.  Commencement, 
with  all  its  anxieties  and  interests,  has  passed. 
If  I  am  not  contented  with  my  lot,  no  one  can  be. 
One  thing  I  can  feel  now,  and  that  is  how  much  I 
owe  to  ray  mother,  and  to  the  influences  of  home, 
which  have  done  so  much  for  my  character.  My 
mother  is  worthy  of  all  love  and  admiration,  and 
of  all  care  on  my  part,  and  I  pray  that  I  may  feel 
this  as  I  ought !  Another  thing  I  have  learned  is, 
that  no  effort  is  thrown  away,  as  in  preparing  for 
these  scholarships.  I  have  done  something,  yet 
how  little  to  what  I  might  have  done,  but  this 
little  has  made  me  Clark  Scholar,  and  but  for 
drawing  lots,  would  have  made  me  Berkeleian. 
Labor !  labor  is  the  great  thing !  Now  1  see  how 
much  better  it  was ;  if  I  had  drawn  the  lot  prob- 


18 


STUDY. 


[1848 


ably  I  should  not  have  studied  for  the  Clark  and 
gained  the  higher  honor,  and  should  not  have  had 
the  advantage  of  the  study  for  it,  which  has  done 
me  more  good  than  all  the  studies  perhaps  of  my 
previous  life;  more  than  the  Berkeleian,  though  that 
was  an  introduction  and  a  discipline  for  it.  .  .  . 
The  future  is  before  me !  I  am  a  man  !  The  mo- 
tives of  college  exist  for  me  no  longer,  the  rewards 
which  a  man  receives  from  the  world  are  more 
distant,  and  perhaps  more  uncertain.  Now,  it 
must  be  study  for  study's  sake,  and  from  a  sense 
of  duty  only;  henceforth  I  must  work  like  a  man 
and  perhaps  like  a  horse.  What  a  man  is  at 
twenty,  when  his  character  is  nearly  formed,  there 
are  many  chances  that  he  will  be  through  life. 
Before  twenty  we  have  nearly  all  chosen  what  we 
will  be." 

His  vacation  was  passed  with  his  brother  Charles  on 
a  farm  in  the  state  of  New  York;  his  letters  and  jour- 
nals are  full  of  pleasant  impressions,  and  the  didactic 
reflections  of  youth.  Though  the  thoughts  seem  com- 
paratively crude,  they  are  far  deeper  than  those  of 
most  young  men  of  twenty,  and  the  style  is  always 
good.  He  criticises  sermons,  books,  conversations, 
and  people,  and  analyzes  Coleridge,  Wordsworth, 
Southey,  Dr.  Arnold,  Ruskin,  and  other  writers,  look- 
ing at  them  from  a  religious  point  of  view,  as  well  as 
a  literary  one. 

''Friday,  Sept.  22d,  1848.  To-day  I  am  twenty 
years  old,  and  it  seems  fitting  that  I  should  soberly 
and  with  a  spirit  of  self-examination  look  back  on 


Mt.  20] 


A  UTOBIOGKAPHICAL. 


19 


my  past  life.  Of  my  early  childhood  I  do  not  re- 
member much — almost  nothing  of  my  thoughts 
and  feelings  then.  1  know  that  I  was  studious,  and 
remember  early  having  doubts  about  free  will.  I 
hardly  date  further  back  than  twelve,  with  any 
connected  recollection.  My  slight  remembrances 
of  this  period  give  me  no  satisfaction,  for  1  see 
myself  as  a  selfish  child,  often  exaggerating  my 
little  indispositions,  doing  little  but  read  novels. 
My  remembrances  of  my  father,  though  faint,  are 
very  pleasing,  being  almost  entirely  of  a  journey  1 
took  with  him,  probably  the  autumn  before  his 
death,  which  happened  the  20th  March,  1841.  I 
remember  with  pain  having  then  offended  him  in 
some  way.  There  are  many  spots  of  recollection  '\\i 
all  this  time — of  Mr.  French's  School,  where  I  went 
at  eight  years  of  age;  of  Stratford;  and  earliest  of 
all,  of  a  visit  to  New  York,  and  a  family  wedding, 
when  I  was  six.  I  was  twelve  when  my  father 
died. 

"  The  next  thing  of  importance  was  my  entering 
college  in  August,  1843.  I  took  a  good  standing 
on  my  entrance,  from  previous  knowledge,  with- 
out any  study.  I  had  no  desire  to  excel;  I  was 
idle  and  reckless  all  the  first  year,  till  on  Nov.  11th, 
1844,  I  was  dismissed  from  college  for  breaking 
Freshmen's  windows.  I  spent  the  winter  idly 
with  my  brother  Edward  in  Marietta,  Ohio,  and 
came  home  with  better  hopes.  I  wasted  the  sum- 
mer, and  at  last  entered  Yale  again,  still  idle,  till 
about  Christmas,  I  saw,  and  loved,  as  the  influence 


20 


FIJiST  LOVE. 


[1848 


upon  me  showed,  Miss ,  and  immediately  gave 

up  the  folly  that  had  possessed  me.  This  prepared 
the  way  for  the  entrance  of  God's  Spirit  into  my 
heart,  for  in  March  next  following,  Mrs. ,  speak- 
ing to  me  on  my  choice  of  a  profession,  made  me 
first  think,  to  any  effect,  of  my  relation  to  a  dis- 
tant future,  and  this  was  my  first  step  in  what 
was  certainly  a  new  life.  I  was  confirmed  that 
summer,  and  took  the  communion  on  the  first 
Sunday  in  August.  At  that  time,  the  young  lady 
whom  I  mentioned  above  continued  to  exercise  a 
great  influence  over  me,  though  I  never  knew  her, 
or  exchanged  a  word  with  her  in  my  life,  and  I 
shall  always,  even  if  I  never  see  her  again,  retain 
a  very  grateful  feeling  towards  her,  for  an  in- 
fluence so  entirely  unconscious  as  it  must  have 
been.  In  April,  1848,  I  was  examined  for  the 
Berkeleian  scholarship,  and  declared  equal  toColton, 
my  competitor;  drew  lots  with  him  and  lost.  This 
I  believe  brings  the  chronicle  down  to  historic 
times.     Now  for  myself,  what  I  know."    .     .     . 

Then  follows  more  self-examination  and  self-accusa- 
tion. In  his  journeys  there  appears  more  and  more 
feeling  for  natural  scenery,  but  as  yet  no  originality 
of  description. 

"  Thursday,  Oct.  12th,  1848.  I  have  now  become 
regularly  settled  in  my  mode  of  life  and  studies 
for  the  winter.  These  will  be.  Mental  and  Moral 
Science,  Greek,  German,  and  History.  Besides 
these,  I  hope  to  write  some  Latin  every  day,  and 


U  ! 


^T.  20] 


AFTER    COLLEGE. 


21 


a  good  deal  of  English,  and  1  must  have  a  little 
poetry  and  light  reading.  My  studies  have  begun 
with  Mill's  "  Logic,"  a  book  which  1  have  thus  far 
found  it  hard  to  understand.  My  Greek  studies, 
carried  on  with  Mr.  Woolsey,  are  very  interesting, 
giving  me  new  ideas  of  the  exact  use  of  words.  I 
see  how  a  mind  need  not  be  narrowed  by  the  study 
of  detail,  even  so  far  as  it  may  be  carried  by  the 
critical  study  of  a  language.  But  I  am  very  un- 
disciplined. I  hope  to  make  history  a  real  philo- 
sophical study  of  human  progress.  Our  country 
is  destined,  they  say,  to  become  the  chief  station 
between  Europe  and  Eastern  Asia.  If  the  course 
of  Empire  is  westward,  what  will  it  do,  when  it 
gets  to  the  Pacific  ?  " 


Pages  upon  pages  follow,  of  his  long  thoughts  upon 
all  subjects  likely  to  interest  a  musing  metaphysical 
mind,  or  rather  a  mind  passing  through  the  phase  of 
metaphysics,  in  the  light  of  an  alert  conscience.  In  fact 
the  effect  of  his  studious  and  sedentary  life  upon  a  consti- 
tution always  delicate  was  such  as  to  make  his  conscience 
often  a  morbid  one.  His  health  was  probably  saved  from 
utter  wreck  by  atliletic  exercises,  such  as  rowing,  skating, 
and  walking.  The  joui'nal  contains  constant  references 
to  his  college  friends,  with  whom  he  corresponded,  and 
long  disquisitions  upon  subjects  connected  with  his 
studies,  which  resemble  themes  and  sermons,  yet  show 
a  mind  full  of  work  and  thought,  putting  forth  shoots 
in  all  directions.  At  this  time  he  began  to  write 
verses,  and  show  them  to  a  friend.  Some  of  them 
have  been  preserved,  but  they  lack  originality,  though 


EARLY  DREAMS. 


[1848 


they  possess  some  poetic  form.  He  had  not  got  much 
farther  than  the  wish  for  expression,  the  words  had 
not  yet  come  to  him,  but  everything  evinces  a  bias 
towards  a  life  of  letters.  His  love  of  country  ah*eady 
declares  itself  strongly. 

"  How  much  this  California  excitement  reminds 
me  of  the  time  when  Peru  and  Mexico  were  dis- 
covered; the  conquest  of  the  country  in  all  itp 
points  bears  so  striking  a  resemblance  to  the  first 
attack  by  the  Spaniards. 

"  How  interesting  are  the  effects !  giving  in  the 
first  place  a  President  to  this  vast  country,  under 
whose  administration  we  first  take  acknowledged 
place  as  the  first  people  in  the  world !  Let  Europe 
go  back  to  barbarism  or  anarchy,  here  the  result 
of  the  world's  weary  labors  will  be  preserved,  and 
here  the  seed  sown  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world  shall  ripen,  and  bring  forth  fruit.  But  enough 
of  this  rhapsody — "  (Several  pages  long). 

Many  things  were  opening  to  him,  almost  too  many. 
The  beauty  of  Nature  now  blossomed  in  his  soul,  and 
Art  was  to  be  revealed  before  long  in  its  own  home. 

"  My  aesthetic  faculties,  which  have  been  asleep 
for  some  time,  are,  I  hope,  waking  again.  H'  any- 
thing could  do  it,  it  would  be  such  a  sunset;  with 
the  evening  which  followed.  The  whole  earth 
covered  with  pure  white  snow;  the  West  Rock 
range  not  perfectly  white,  but  hoary,  and  making 
a  sharp  line  against  the  glowing  horizon,  where 


u 


Mt.  20] 


EARLY  DREAMS. 


23 


the  sun  went  down  full-orbed  in  splendor.  And 
the  gradation  of  color,  so  glorious,  from  the  bright 
radiance  of  the  sun's  last  tarrying  place,  to  the 
solemn  glory  of  the  zenith,  and  then  the  moon, 
and  the  evening  star  shining  on  the  snow ;  the  sky 
like  steel.  It  is  enough  to  make  a  poet  of  any  one 
who  will  let  it  into  his  soul.  I  got  excited  the 
other  day  about  poetry,  and  spent  a  morning  in 
writing  some  verses,  which  did  very  well,  for  my 
small  experience.  I  have  read  '  Modern  Painters,' 
too,  an  era  in  my  life.  Since  then  I  have  allowed 
myself  too  many  dreams,  and  have  wished  to  be 
a  poet, 

**  'Singing  hymns  unbidden  till  the  world  was  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not.' 

"  It  will  not  do !     My  life  must  be  practical. 

"  I  have,  in  connection  with  Heeren's  'Asia,'  read 
some  translations  from  the  Sanskrit — Milman's 
'Nala  and  Damayanta,'  and  Sir  William  Jones'  *Sa- 
contala.'    They  are  beautiful,  simple,  and  tender." 

Here  follows  a  critique  upon  Hindu  poetry. 

"In  my  late  dreams  of  writing  poetry,  which 
my  present  powers  do  not  confirm,  I  have  been  ex- 
amining my  past  life,  to  see  if  I  have  any  of  those 
'first  affections,  those  shadowy  recollections,'  those 
inward  promptings  that  speak  the  power,  the  love, 
the  imagination  of  the  true  poet.  I  find  that  in 
all  my  dreams  I  have  desired  something  great,  and 
noble;  but  all  dreamers  have.     I  find  that  I  have 


u 


THE    YOUNG    POET. 


[1818 


il 


been  deeply  impressed  with  nature  and  beauty; 
but  all  dreamers  have.  Asa  child,  I  felt  the  won- 
ders of  the  Hudson  in  a  journey  with  my  father, 
and  now  often,  in  my  boat,  when  I  am  in  the  trough 
of  the  sea,  with  nothing  but  water  around  me,  and 
seem  lost  in  the  waste  of  water,  as  I  go  down  into 
the  belly  of  one  of  those  waves,  I  feel  my  nothing- 
ness completely;  and  fear  without  fright  is  a  part 
of  the  sublime.  But  if  all  thoughts  of  poetry  should 
be  to  me  but  idle  dreams,  may  I  ever  be  able  to 
say  with  Coleridge,  '  Poetry  has  been  to  me  its 
own  exceeding  great  reward.'  I  never  really  set 
about  writing  it  till  January  5th  of  this  year,  when 
mother  read  me  some  verses  of  hers  about  a  bright- 
er land,  beyond  an  intervening  water,  which  were 
really  very  beautiful.  They  seemed  to  wake  me 
up,  so  that  morning  I  wrote  some  verses,  which  I 
count  really  as  my  first.  They  speak  of  the  in- 
fluence upon  me,  long  ago,  of  a  lady  whom  1  do 
not  know.  The  great  secret  seems  to  be  that,  with 
your  mind  ready  and  alive  to  what  you  are  in 
search  of,  you  will  be  sure  to  find  it.  If  you  have 
any  creative  power,  the  thoughts  that  would  other- 
wise pass  through  and  be  forgotten  are  thus  chained. 
I  hardly  dare  to  say  to  myself  how  much  I  wish 
to  find  this  power  within  me;  it  would  satisfy  all 
the  desire  I  have  had  to  teach  others  to  love  beauty, 
and  to  be  made  purer  by  it.  If  I  might,  I  would 
strive  to  be  the  poet  of  m-^  country  and  my  God, 
guiding  and  raising  the  eyes  of  many  young  spirits 
who  like  myself  are  beginning  life  with  some  noble 


M 


Mt.  20] 


JOURNAL. 


25 


aspirations.  I  alinoHl  think  sometimes  that  I  might. 
It  would  be  a  sacred,  an  awful  trust.  I  do  not  de- 
serve it.  I  must  not  dream,  but  labor,  nor  mistake 
the  desire  for  the  power  to  speak  to  young  men 
and  warn  them  and  move  them. 

"  I  began '  Sartor  Resartus '  this  evening  (Saturday, 
Jan.  20th,  1849).  I  am  prepared  to  like  Carlylo 
very  much.  He  suggests  much  to  me  of  the  force 
of  words.  But  I  am  a  great  deal  too  fond  of  the 
sound  of  my  own  voice,  and  often  find  that,  like  a 
fool,  I  would  rather  talk  myself  than  hear  others. 

"  1  think  dancing  rather  a  bore,  and  supper  always 

makes  me  sick,  yet  the  party  at  Mrs.  D 's  was 

one  of  the  pleasantest  I  remember.     ...... 

"  I  have  been  told  on  good  authority  that  Robes- 
pierre  was  an  Irishman 

"  Beauty  of  language  places  Pindar  above  all  the 
Greek  poets 

"  Prince  Louis  Napoleon  must  be  a  very  poor 
sort  of  a  man.  He  has,  I  suppose,  strong  advisers, 
but  can  a  man  of  so  little  ability  sustain  himself  in 
France  at  the  present  crisis  ?  Perhaps  a  nonentity 
is  the  best  they  could  have  just  now.  A  man  of 
power  without  principle  might  seize  again  upon 
the  throne,  and  so  keep  up  the  series  of  revolutions. 
Unless  they  have  a  Republic,  which  will  leave  them 
nothing  to  seek  for,  the  French,  from  mere  dissatis- 
faction with  the  existing  order  of  things,  would  have 
another  Revolution ;  but  it  would  be  only  temporary. 
A  republic  actually  existing  removes  the  causes 
for  revolution.     The  California  mania  still  rages 


Illi 


.? 


if 


JOURNAL. 


[1849 


more  and  more.  Some  of  my  frieiuls  have  gone. 
Most  of  those  who  expect  to  make  their  fortunes 
by  mining  will  be  disappointed.  Wonderful  that 
this  gold  should  have  been  kept  oul  of  sight  so 
long,  and  only  be  found  when  it  can  help  our 
country  to  be  the  middle  of  the  world;  for  here  we 
are  with  eastern  ports  for  Europe  and  western 
ones  for  Asia.  With  a  people  equal  to  anything, 
I  do  not  see  but  we  shall  be  masters  of  the  world. 
Who  knows  but  the  whole  world  may  one  day  be 
united  under  a  representative  government? 

"  I  find  my  uncle's  opinion  about  the  Alcestis 
quite  agrees  with  mine.  Admetus  is  made  so  con- 
temptible that  no  other  charm  can  counterbalance 
this.  Alcestis  is  tender  and  devoted,  and  her  char- 
acter is  all  the  beauty  of  the  play,  for,  certainly,  not 
beautiful  are  the  recriminations  of  Admetus  and  his 
father,  or  the  douhle  entendres  with  Hercules. 

"I  re-read  with  pleasure  Tennyson's  poems.  He 
has  exquisite  power  over  language,  and  his  poems 
have  blood  in  them,  and  are  really  classic.  The 
poetic  aestrus  that  excited  me  a  while  ago,  has  fled 
away — perhaps,  forever. 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  had  a  guide  in  life,  in  youth, 
and  been  saved  much  folly !  Whatever  I  have  of 
good,  is  owing  to  the  silent  influence  of  home  and 
my  mother.  I  have  been  reading  Grote's  History, 
and  more  Carlyle.  He  makes  me  long  to  visit  the 
north  of  Europe.  I  must  see  Europe  sometime,  and 
all  those  places  whose  names  are  like  household 
words.     England  most  of  all. 


Mr.  20] 


LOSS   OF  HEALTH. 


27 


"I  have  often  observed  that  the  stars  seem  to 
shine  down  into  my  breast,  not  into  my  eyes.  It 
has  given  me  occasion  for  some  pleasant  fancies. 

"I  find  that  I  am  vain,  even  to  myself;  talking 
about  what  I  could  do,  if  I  were  not  too  lazy.  1 
have  no  business  to  be  lazy.  I  must  work  and  be 
a  man,  or  starve.  But  life  and  the  world  still  seem 
so  obscure ! " 

''Worccfifei',  Mass.,  Sundcuj,  May  20th.  At  Mr. 
Foster's.  My  health  has  been  so  poor  for  the 
two  months  past  that  I  have  not  felt  inclination 
or  energy,  hardly  ability,  to  write  here.  1  have 
been  a  martyr  to  dyspepsia,  which  has  troubled  me 
more  or  less  my  whole  life,  but  more  this  spring 
than  ever.  In  fact,  I  have  been  quite  good-for- 
nothing,  and  at  times  quite  desperate.  I  gave 
up  study  pretty  much,  my  mind  lost  all  spring, 
and  even  the  desire  for  information  and  the  wish 
for  the  good  opinion  of  others.  All  my  hopes  died 
within  me.  Henry  Hitchcock  and  I  have  now  been 
nearly  a  week  in  Worcester,  and  I  have  been  en- 
joying myself  and  constantly  improving  in  health. 
Life  begins  to  look  a  little  brighter  for  me.  I  really 
think  if  I  had  continued  a  month  longer  I  should 
have  fallen  into  a  settled  melancholy.  I  have  en- 
joyed my  stay  in  Worcester,  not  only  on  account 
of  Dwight  Foster's  and  Henry  Hitchcock's  society, 
but  because  the  intercourse  with  a  man  of  Mr.  Fos- 
ter's age  and  sense  is  an  unusual  pleasure  to  me, 
and  the  friendship  between  father  and  son  is  a 
thing  that  I  know  nothing  of     To  be  among  new 


* 


28 


LOSS   OF  HEALTH. 


[1849 


people  is  quite  a  study,  especially  when  they  are 
so  different  from  my  own  female  family  circle.  I 
have  learned  something  of  the  public  characters 
of  the  last  gjneration,  of  whoui  my  knowledge  had 
been  almost  confined  to  their  names.  Mr.  Foster 
lias  given  me  two  letters  of  Fisher  Ames.  He 
must  have  been  an  admirable  man.  I  have  read 
his  great  speech  on  Jay's  treaty,  which  was  said 
to  be  knee  deep  in  patlios.  Ill  health  prevented 
him  from  engaging  in  public  life  to  the  height  of 
his  povvcrs,  and  finally  obliged  him  to  retire  alto- 
gether, at  the  time  when  his  reputation  was  great- 
est. That  speech,  which  was  his  last,  was  also  his 
best. 

"t7zfwe4th,  1849.  I  have  now  been  so  long  in  feeble 
health  and  really  unable  to  do  anything,  that  sonr- 
times  I  almost  despair.  My  spirits  have  been  very 
much  depressed,  and  serious  considerations  as  to  my 
course  in  life  have  weighed  upon  me  heavily.  I  have 
hesitated  long  and  painfully  about  my  profession.  I 
have  wished  and  prayed  to  do  my  duty.  My  friends 
are  divided  in  opinion,  but  they  cannot  choose  for  me. 
My  own  judgment  directs  me  to  Law  as  ni}'^  future 
profession.  A  life  of  study  and  retirement  would 
increase  my  tendency  to  morbid  views  of  myself 
and  others,  and  destroy  my  usefulness  and  happi- 
ness. Of  this  state  of  mind  I  have  had  warnings 
this  spring.  If  my  mind  had  been  left  to  prey 
upon  itself  much  longer  it  might  have  led  to  dis- 
aster. The  very  thought  of  such  a  thing  makes 
me  watchful.     An  active  life  among  men  would 


K  %  > 


iiii 


/Et.  20] 


LOSS   OF  HEALrif. 


20 


correct  this.  I  have  lost  all  inclination  for  a  stu- 
dent's life.  In  a  literary  life  I  might  not  be  dili- 
gent. The  prospect  is  dim  before  me,  but  I  mean 
to  study  law  this  next  year  at  Cambridge,  and  then 
make  up  my  mind  and  know  better  what  I  am  fit 
for.  I  suppose  I  could  do  respectably  in  anything 
I  tried,  but  this  would  not  satisfy  me.  I  want  em- 
inence, and  to  obtain  this  may  be  beyond  my  pow- 
ers. I  wonder  if  I  could  make  a  good  speech  ?  I 
look  to  the  bar  as  a  stepping-stone  to  politics. 

''July  20th,  1849.  As  I  do  not  wish  to  fill  my 
pages  with  complaints,  I  will  say  nothing  of  the 
ill  health  that  interrupted  and  finally  put  an  end 
to  my  studies.  Finding  that  I  could  really  do  notli- 
ing  at  home  and  that  the  partial  relaxation  of  a 
walk  or  an  idle  day  did  me  no  good,  and  with  the 
fear  before  me  that  a  winter  of  severe  study  at 
Harvard  would  finish  me  entirely,  I  decided,  with 
the  advice  and  approval  of  my  mother,  to  devote  a 
year  to  travel  in  Europe.  1  was  very  unwilling 
to  come  to  this,  as  it  compelled  the  deferring  of  all 
my  plans,  and  I  can  ill  afford  the  time  or  the  money. 
But  it  seemed  the  only  way  which  united  the  re- 
covery of  my  health  with  the  prospect  of  mental 
improvement.  I  rejoice  in  the  opportunity,  and 
shall  try  to  make  the  best  of  it,  though  1  regret 
the  cause." 


Through  all  this  youiliful  journalizing,  moralizing, 
essay-writing,  and  earnest  self-questioning  and  accu- 
sation, a  pecuharly  sensitive  and  impressionable  soul 
may  plainly  be  seen,  strugghng  with  ill  health  in  the 


30 


THE    REMEDY. 


[1849 


narrow  cage  of  a  quiet  scholarly  town,  yet  living  a 
real  life,  with  symj^athies  going  out  to  everything 
around  it.  But  a  change  was  near.  The  earnestness 
might  have  become  morbidness,  the  sensitiveness,  weak- 
ness, or  the  struggle,  misery  and  failure,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  life-giving  influence  of  wider  experience,  of  new 
worlds  to  conquer.  The  fight  was  yet  to  come,  and 
weapons  were  now  to  be  jiut  into  his  hands. 


m 


CHAPTER   II. 


EUROPE. 


HE  sailed  for  Europe  in  the  Liverpool  packet,  Mar- 
garet Evans,  on  Friday,  July  27th,  1849.  The  influ- 
ence of  a  foreign  tour  upon  such  a  youth  as  he,  must 
have  been  very  great.  He  was  changed,  he  became  a 
man.  His  letters  and  journals  were  full  of  fascination 
to  his  family,  but  now  the  grand  tour  is  a  thing  of  every 
day,  and  they  contain  much  that  would  not  interest  a 
reader,  and  that  would  seem,  hurried  as  they  were, 
like  pages  from  guide  books.  It  was  then  a  rarer 
chance  than  now  for  a  young  collegian  to  travel,  and 
he  was  probably  the  first  of  his  class  to  go.  His  mind 
was  more  ripe  and  prepared  by  study  than  most  young 
men  of  twenty-one.  Although  he  traveled  afterwards, 
often  and  widely,  there  is  only  one  first  time;  and  its 
mark  is  plainly  to  be  seen  in  his  literary  work,  which 
until  then  was  the  mere  boyish  effort  of  a  fledgeling, 
trying  his  wings,  but  never  soaring.  From  this  time 
a  love  of  travel  and  adventure  was  born  in  his  soul, 
bringing  with  it  free  thought  and  independent  action. 
His  first  impressions  were  overwhelming,  nor  was  his 
ardent  young  heart  ashamed  to  beat  as  he  neared 
his  goal. 


32 


LAND,    HO! 


[840 


K 


••Enflrtonrf,  ^uflfus«  26th,  1849. 

"I  had  asked  the  mate  to  call  me  early,  and 
after  sitting  np  till  midnight  enjoying  the  flashing 
of  the  ship  through  the  water  under  a  thirteen- 
knot  breeze,  and  having  caught  a  glimpse  of  St. 
Catherine's  light,  with  a  dark  line  under  it,  that 
the  mate  said  was  land,  I  turned  in  for  a  few  hours, 
with  the  exciting  feeling  that  in  the  morning  I 
should  see  the  land  of  our  forefathers.  I  went  up  on 
deck  at  five  o'clock.  The  sun  was  just  risen,  the  air 
fresh  and  sparkling,  and  about  three  miles  to  wind- 
ward the  white  cliffs  of  Beachy  Head,  their  bril- 
liant front  coming  sharply  down  to  the  clear  green 
water,  and  drawing  a  wavy  line  against  the  sky. 
The  very  sight  of  land  brings  ecstasy  to  one  who 
has  been  long  at  sea,  and  this  was  more  than  vul- 
gar earth  and  speechless  clods.  The  recollection 
of  such  things  never  leaves  one,  but  to  put  it  down 
in  black  and  white  seems  too  much  of  rhapsody." 


He  landed  from  the  ship  in  a  pilot  boat  which  put 
them  ashore  at  New  Haven,  a  coincidence  very  pleas- 
ant to  him. 


in 
(I 


|i: 


"I  could  hardly  restrain  myself,"  he  says,  '*froa"* 
shouting  and  singing  as  I  touched  the  land." 

His  first  view  of  London  impresses  him  deeply: — 

•Mtt^jt  29th.  1849. 

"I  had  of  course  the  usual  feelings  of  delight 
and  excited  interest  on  first  seeing  London,  and 
the  usual  astonishment  of  every  one  at  its  vast  ex- 


Mr.  20] 


LONDON. 


33 


tent,  and  the  crowds  that  throng  its  streets,  and 
my  wonder  is  always  on  the  increase,  as  I  wander 
about  from  street  to  street,  and  find  everywhere  the 
same  mass  of  houses,  and  the  same  vast  multitude 
hurrying  about,  and  not  caring  the  least  for  you. 
I  cannot  bear  merely  to  go  from  place  to  place,  not 
seeing  things  thoroughly.  I  want  to  allow  each 
well-known  place  to  be  familiar  and  real  to  me, 
before  I  confuse  its  impressions  by  adding  some- 
thing new.  I  wander  about  the  whole  time,  find- 
ing myself  continually  in  familiar  places.  As  soon 
as  I  arrived  and  had  dinner,  I  started  down  the 
Strand  from  Morley's,  and  walked  five  or  six  miles, 
coming  home  quite  tired  out.  The  next  day  1  was 
everywhere  for  a  moment,  just  to  satisfy  the  first 
cravings  of  curiosity.  I  saw  Westminster  Abbey, 
but  only  the  exterior,  for  I  found  this  aft'ected  me 
so  much  that  I  could  not  trust  inyself  further. 
Yesterday  I  felt  too  unwell  to  do  much,  so  I  rode 
down  to  St.  Paul's  in  the  morning,  and  spent  the 
rest  of  the  day  lying  under  the  trees  in  Hyde  Park. 
"  Whether  it  is  not  being  strong,  or  what,  I  do 
not  know,  but  the  sight  of  all  these  places  has  so 
much  effect  upon  me  that  I  cannot  refrain  from 
tears,  and  I  was  rejoiced  to  be  able  among  the 
trees  of  the  Park  to  give  them  full  flow.  Don't 
think  me  a  fool,  but  I  cannot  help  it." 

In  his  long  letters  (often  of  sixteen  large  and  closely 
written  pages),  are  minute  details  of  everything  he 
sees,  which  were  all  new  to  his  untraveled  readers  at 
home.     Though  not  yet  twenty-one  when  he  lauded  in 


34 


LONDON. 


[1849 


!;ii 


%    ■ 


m 


iiHii 


England,  he  was  prepared  with  a  knowledge  of  his- 
tory, toj)ography,  and  art,  especially  of  architecture, 
which  was  very  uncommon  at  his  age,  and  seemed 
half  instinctive. 

"  LmSon,  Morley's  Hotel,  Sept.  1st,  1849. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  sent  you  yesterday  a  letter, 
wliich  I  fear  will  interest  you  but  little,  as  it  was 
written  in  great  haste.  I  have  now  been  in  Lon- 
don three  whole  days,  and  my  wonder  does  not  at 
all  diminish  at  the  vastness  of  the  city,  the  in- 
finitude of  people,  and  the  perfect  order  that 
prevails  everywhere.  In  all  this  concourse  every 
man  seems  to  know  his  business  and  his  place,  and 
every  horse  and  every  vehicle  obeys  the  same  great 
law.  The  sense  of  one's  insignificance  and  mo- 
mentariness  is  so  strong  as  to  be  almost  painful. 
I  f  I  were  asked,  what  1  consider  the  greatest  won- 
der of  London  yet  ?  I  should  say  to  ride  from  Char- 
ing Cross  to  the  Bank  about  two  o'clock,  on  the 
top  of  a  'bus,  and  see  the  crowds  of  people,  and  the 
wonderful  driving.  You  will  be  tired,  no  doubt, 
of  my  speaking  so  often  of  these  things,  but  re- 
member, this  is  not  only  my  first  view  of  London, 
but  of  any  great  city.  New  York  seems  small  now. 
I  will  tell  you  better  things  by  and  by. 

"On  Wednesday,  Sept.  5th,  1849,  I  left  Euston 
Square  for  the  North.  The  perfection  of  the  ar- 
rangements on  the  English  railways  is  quite  strik- 
ing to  me,  after  the  comparative  confusion  of  ours, 
though  we're  doing  much  better  now." 


^T.  20] 


SCOTLAND. 


86 


During  this  journey  he  visits  Sheffield  and  York, 
p^iviiig  a  minute  description  of  the  Cathedral,  as  well 
as  of  Durliam.  Arrivinp^  at  Edinboro'  the  lirst  place 
of  interest  is  naturally  Holyrood. 

"  I  was  shown  about  by  a  very  solemn  old  wo- 
man, whom  I  made  more  communicativo  by  prob- 
ing her  about  Sir  Walter,  of  whom  she  spoke  as  of 
some  dear  friend.  *  And  the  affability  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter, and  how  he  used  to  ask  questions,  did  Sir 
Walter,  though  all  the  while,  you  know,  sir,  he 
knew  the  whole  better  than  anybody  else.'  When 
I  touched  her  upon  the  house  of  Stuart,  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  my  arm,  and  in  a  mysterious  whisper 
declared  to  me  the  awful  secret  that  she  was  a 
flacobite." 


Edinboro'  and  its  associations  interest  him  deeply. 
He  is  enchanted  with  Melrose. 

"  I  longed  for  you  more  than  ever  to  see  it  with 
me ;  but  for  a  full  account  of  these  things  I  must 
refer  you,  from  Theodore  abroad,  with  a  thousand 
things  to  say,  and  no  time  to  say  them  in,  to  Theo- 
dore at  home,  the  best  of  all  places,  as  I  feel  more 
and  more  clearly  every  day. 

"  I  called  on  Sir  William  Hamilton,  and  spent  a 
very  pleasant  evening  with  him.  To  say  that  I 
admired  Melrose  would  be  absurd.  It  is  fairer  than 
the  things  of  earth,  and  seems  so  because  time  has 
purged  away  all  the  eartiil/  part,  leaving  only 
what  was  permanent.     One  thing  that  strikes  me 


l!!U 


1 


3G 


I'fMGAL'S    CAVE. 


[184U 


as  a  chief  element  of  its  hcunty  is  that  it  has  no 
windows  or  doors  to  clieck  your  view  in  looking 
out,  and  you  have  the  whole  thrown  open,  so  that 
everywhere  a  broken  arch  or  a  fallen  pillar  gives 
a  new  view;  and  then  the  color  of  the  stone,  a 
beautiful  red-brown." 

Not  to  linger  too  long  in  Scotland,  where  he  takes 
an  extended  tour,  he  went  on  to  Staflfa. 

"  As  I  went  north  I  had  an  odd  sort  of  feeling 
as  if  I  were  coming  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and 
as  if  each  narrow  rocky  point  was  a  jumping-ofF 
place.  I  thought  of  going  to  the  Isle  of  Skye,  but 
it  is  too  late  and  cold,  so  I  shall  return  towards 
England,  which  seems  quite  like  a  home,  and  more 
as  I  am  always  taken  for  an  Englishman,  and  have 
some  difficulty  in  establishing  my  nationality.  I 
enjoy  traveling  more  than  at  first.  I  used  to  be 
sometimes  at  a  loss  with  my  little  experience,  but 
greenness  soon  wears  off,  and  I  learn  to  bluster 
like  John  Bull.  The  scene  at  Staffa  was  very 
striking,  in  this  solitary  place,  with  the  sea  break- 
ing wildly  on  the  rocks,  and  became  still  more  so 
when  we  entered  Fingal's  Cave.  There  came  to 
my  mind  the  passage  in  the  Bible  speaking  of  the 
wicked  calling  for  the  mountains  to  fall  on  them, 
and  the  hills  to  cover  them ;  and  this  was  suoh  a 
hiding  place.  It  was  almost  awful ;  a  temple  not 
made  with  hands ;  the  black  damp  rocks  going  down 
to  an  unknown  depth  in  the  black  water ;  the  light 
from  the  entrance  just  sufficient  to  make  the  whole 


Mt,  21] 


scon  AND. 


37 


interior  visible,  without  any  glare.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  that  seemed  to  bring  nie  so  near 
eternity  as  this,  so  far  from  the  homes  and  works 
of  man." 

••  Stirling,  Oct.  6th,  1849. 

"  This  is  my  last  point  in  Scotland,  and  I  say  it 
with  regret.  It  is  quite  a  relief  to  be  again  in  the 
Lowlands,  in  softer  scenery.  I  feel  this  particularly 
after  Glencoe,  which  is  the  climax  of  desolate  Scotch 
mountain  scenery.  You  will  be  surprised  when  I 
8;iy  that  here  at  Stirling  I  saw  my  first  horse  race, 
and  never  care  to  see  one  again.  I  found  it  very 
stupid.  I  make  acquaintance  with  many  travelers, 
or  they  with  me,  and  I  meet  the  same  tourists  over 
and  over.  The  English  throw  off  their  reserve  as 
soon  as  they  cross  their  own  frontier,  and  can  say, 
'  We  don't  have  such  bread  in  England.' 

"  I  like  my  lonely  walks  over  the  moors,  where 
the  grouse  get  quietly  up  from  under  my  feet, 
knowing  my  umbrella  is  not  a  gun,  and  the  deer 
look  at  me  from  the  hill,  or  the  hare  from  the 
covert. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  study  the  surnames  on  signs, 
and  see  if  they  are  like  ours,  or  new  to  me.  One 
name  I  noticed  was  Mr.  Twentyman,  himself  a  host. 
Many  I  find  that  I  supposed  the  coinage  of  some 
author's  brain.  They  told  me  to  be  sure  to  go  to 
Fountain's  Abbey,  and  I  am  glad  I  did.  The  first 
view  of  the  Abbey  is  most  beautiful,  just  in  the  cen- 
ter of  a  picture,  with  a  dark  background  of  woods 
and  a  foreground  of  soft  green  meadow,  through 


38 


ENGLISH  LIFE. 


[1840 


!( 


;  i;i 


which  winds  a  little  wooded  stream,  and  a  pond  is 
at  your  feet  with  swans  sailing  about." 

GivinfT  a  long  description  of  the  architecture  of  the 
Abbey  from  Early  English  to  Perpendicular,  full  of  ap- 
preciation and  detail,  he  enjoys  the  grotesque  carved 
stalls  at  Riiion,  where  he  finds  a  pig  playing  the  bag- 
pijie,  Punch  wheeling  Judy  in  a  barrow,  a  fox  and 
goose  and  other  odd  fancies,  and  goes  to  Haddon  Hall, 
Chatsworth,  and  Stratford-on-Avon. 

*'At  Kirkstall,  as  elsewhere,  I  found  the  most 
splendid  screens  of  ivy,  made  more  beautiful  by 
the  blossoms  of  a  lighter  green.  These  monstrous 
old  trunks  cling  to  the  walls  with  a  grasp  that  re- 
minds me  of  the  feeling  that  comes  in  bad  dreams 
— they  hold  fast  without  any  apparent  means — the 
whole  mass  bared  of  its  leaves  and  dead,  but  still 
holding  fast,  and  interlaced  in  the  most  complex 
manner. 

"I  have  amused  myself  by  going  into  countv 
alehouses,  to  see  all  sides  of  English  life.  I  wc. 
into  a  little  place  in  Lichtield  on  the  Fair  day.  I 
meant  to  have  taken  my  glass  with  the  farmers, 
but  the  barmaid  insisted  on  taking  me  into  another 
room,  set  round  with  little  tables,  garnished  with 
long  clay  pipes.  Two  women  came  in  from  the 
market,  producing  mutton  pies,  on  which  they  pro- 
ceeded to  dine  heartily.  I  would  far  rather  go  to 
these  places  than  to  an  upper  class  hotel,  where 
people  are  all  alike.  I  find  great  delight  in  the 
scenes  that  make  real  to  me  so  much.     I  see  the 


Er.  21] 


ENGUSIl  LIFE. 


39 


very  people  that  novelists  have  deseribed,  *  Mr. 
Weller'  and  'Saniivel,'  cockney  sportsmen,  and  gen- 
iuses with  dishevelled  liair,  benevolent  old  green- 
horns with  eyeglass  and  black  gaiters^ — a  whole 
Pickwick  Club  at  every  railway  station,  fat  old 
ladies  that  have  'dowager'  stamped  upon  every 
feature  and  motion,  from  the  nngaiiily  waddle  of 
their  gait,  to  the  manifold  ribbons  of  their  mon- 
strous hats;  people  wild  about  their  multifarious 
luggage,  and  making  every  possible  blunder.  A 
thousand  such  things  I  see;  and  I  am  glad  always 
to  see  the  comic  side,  for  the  sorrowful  intrudes 
itself  quite  too  often,  and  painful  questions  force 
themselves  upon  the  mind. 

"The  English  parks  and  seats  are  very  beautiful 
in  their  perfect  finish,  but  hardly  more  so  than  the 
country  everywhere;  you  are  astonished  to  lind  al- 
ways the  same  green  fields  and  trim  hedges  and 
grand  trees.  •, 

"One  of  my  objects  is, to  see  as  many  cathedrals 
as  possible,  for  each  is  interesting  in  itself,  and  has 
features  quite  peculiar  to  itself.  Gloucester  is  re- 
markable for  its  perfection  in  every  part  ....  but 
I  must  not  give  you  an  architectural  treatise  merely. 

"  In  going  to  Bath  I  was  amused  to  notice  the 
odd  way  of  going  down  the  steep  hills  with  the 
donkey  carts.  They  tie  the  foremost  beast  of  the 
tandem  to  the  back  of  the  cart,  and  putting  a  sack 
over  his  hinder  parts,  they  knock  away  his  legs 
from  under  him,  and  he  slides  down  hill,  acting  as 
a  drag." 


f  'I 


I;  I 


,       i 


(  I 


j 

ll 


OXFORD. 


[1849 


Visiting  Oxford  he  meets  with  great  kindness  and 
hospitality,  and  sees  many  interesting  people. 

"You  know  how  I  feel  about  Oxford,  and  can 
imagine  with  what  feelings  I  walked  through  the 
quadrangles  and  gardens,  and  recognized  the  fa- 
miliar names  of  each.  I  refer  you  to  my  future 
letters  for  descriptions.  Some  of  the  young  men 
have  the  unmistakable  look  that  distinguishes  a 
Freshman  everywliere,  the  same  mingling  of  con- 
scious iaiportance  with  apprehension  and  innocent 
surprise.  Altogether  a  very  gentlemanly  looking 
collection  of  men,  and  many  handsome  ones  among 
them." 

Three  long  letters,  of  sixteen  pages  each,  contain  his 
impressions  of  Ox'ord  and  Cambridge,  and  their  po- 
etic, scholarly  life  and  beauty. 

"At  Balliol  we  saw  among  the  curiosities  a  tank- 
ard, given  by  the  Man  of  I^oss — Mr.  Kyrle.  It  had 
a  hedgehog,  his  crest,  upon  it,  and  a  lady  who  knows 
the  family  told  me  that  they  have  a  superstition 
that  a  hedgehog  always  precedes  each  member  of 
the  family  to  the  other  world,  for  one  of  these  ani- 
mals is  always  found  dead  by  the  door  before  any 
death  in  the  house. 

"  0  how  I  glory  in  my  country !  There  are  times 
when  sad  and  gloomy  views  of  life  must  be  present 
to  one  who  feels  *  the  burthen  of  the  mystery  of  all 
this  unintelligible  world,'  but  I  rejoice  to  think 
that  there  are  among  us  some  men,  young  and  old, 


^T.  21] 


OXFORD. 


41 


xvho  combine  reverence  for  the  past  with  hope  for 
the  iutiire,  in  whom  reverence  is  not  blindness,  nor 
hope  rashness.     They  will  be  our  salvation 

"A  genuine  enthusiasm  like  Ruskin's  is  not  com- 
nmn  in  Oxford;  the  present  spirit  of  the  place  seems 
opposed  to  It;  the  easy  life  of  a  fellow  of  a  c(  "e-e 
18  enjoyed  rather  as  a  period  of  scholastic  leisul^ 
than  of  serious  and  diligent  preparation   for  thj 
duties  of  life.     This  impression  at  least  I  derived 
from  the  men  themselves.     It  is  not  so,  of  course, 
with  all.      There  is  life  enough  among  the  younge;  . 
men,  especially  those  who  come  from  Rugby." 

Amono.  his  letters  of  introduction  was  one  to  a  <^en- 
tle^an  who  was  a  strong  opponent  of  the  Tractarian 
movement.  The  controversy  was  sthl  rife,  and  he 
appears  to  have  heard  much  discussion  on  the  subject 
though  he  seems  only  to  have  been  interested  as  a 
looker  on.     But  everything  set  him  thinking. 

"I  have  always  in  my  mind,  when  I  see  any- 
thing  new  or  important,  its  effect  if  carried  over 
to  my  own  country,  and  I  should  think,  on  the 
whole,  our  system  is  far  in  advance  of  Oxford  and 
not  much  behind  Cambridge.  Every  one,  n^rly, 
n  Oxford  thinks  that  some  change  is  necessary 
but  none  are  agreed  as  to  what  it  is. 

"I  sometimes  feel  disposed  to  come  directly 
home.  I  have  seen  things  and  people,  alread^, 
enough  to  last  me  all  my  life. 

nir.  G told  me  that  on  his  proposing  to 

bring  me  to  visit  a  friend,  the  person  expressed 


h 


i  li 


:tii 


A! 


lis. 


■'  '' 


42 


y^A^  ATTACHE. 


[1849 


great  consternation,  and  said,  *  How  do  you  know 
but  he  is  going  to  write  a  book ! ' 

"  One  thinks  of  the  English  as  a  stable  govern- 
ment, but  it  has  a  strange  effect  on  rae  here,  where 
I  hear  only  English  opinions,  to  find  how  every- 
thing is  in  a  transition  state — everybody  proposing 
some  plan  of  improvement,  so  that  ours  seems  the 
settled  government  and  this  the  experimental." 

"  London,  Morley's  Hotel,  Nov.  9th,  1849. 

"One  can  hardly  know,  until  you  have  been 
about  these  streets,  how  true  and  how  telling  are 
the  jokes  and  caricatures  in  Punch.  In  fact  a  care- 
ful study  of  Punch  is  an  excellent  preparation  for 
London  life. 

"  I  am  acting  as  a  sort  of  attache  to  our  Embassy. 

I  call  myself  so,  because  Mr.  L told  me  I  was 

his  only  one.  Attaches  are  rather  ornamental  than 
useful,  their  duties  being  generally  only  to  the 
ladies  of  the  family;  these  I  have  faithfully  per- 
formed, and  besides  I  am  deep  in  the  secrets  of  the 
Mosquito  question. 

"I  shall  go  to  Paris  probably  on  Monday,  and 
am,  for  my  convenience,  charge  de  depeches  for  the 
Legation. 

"  I  always  enjoy  myself  to  an  intense  degree  in 
a  crowd,  and  deHght  in  going  down  into  the  City 
on  the  top  of  a  'bus.  It  was  my  first  wonder  in 
London,  and  will  be  my  last — the  marvelous  driv- 
ing in  the  streets." 

In  Paris  he  meets  many  friends,  but  is  very  far  from 
being  well  or  happy.     In  fact,  his  health  was  never 


^T.  21] 


PARIS   LIFE. 


43 


^ 


strong  enough  to  give  liim  a  fair  start  in  life,  and 
though  in  after  years  it  gradually  improved,  and  out- 
door life  and  travel  always  invigorated  him,  illness 
constantly  interfered  with  his  plans.  He  spent  a  great 
deal  of  his  time  in  Paris  in  the  friendly  home  of  the 
Hunts,  the  family  of  the  distinguished  painter,  William 
Hunt,  and  his  brother,  Eichard  Hunt,  the  architect, 
who  were  both  there,  engaged  in  art  studies;  and  he 
also  met,  for  the  first  time,  Mr.  W.  H.  Aspinwall, 
destined  to  become  his  fast  friend. 

He  was  a  favorite  wherever  he  went,  and  projDer 
reticence  and  want  of  space  alone  forbid  quoting  his 
descriptions  of  the  people  he  met,  both  high  and  low, 
who  were  kind  and  attentive  to  him.  Society  could 
not  fail  to  awaken  still  more  a  young  soul  only  too  im- 
pressible for  its  own  happiness.  Everj-^thing  was  ap- 
preciated and  assimilated.  He  started  wonderfully 
well  prepared  for  travel  for  a  young  man  not  twenty- 
one,  and  his  art  criticisms*  seldom  differ  from  the  best 
ideas  of  to-day. 


"  Paris,  Nov.  22d,  1849. 

"Dear  Mother, — At  another  time  I  would  have 
liked  to  stop  and  st  i  he  country,  but  now  I  looked 
upon  Paris  as  a  sort  ot  El  Dorado,  where  1  was  to 
find  health,  and  everything  that  I  wished;  so  I 
hastened  on,  reaching  there  about  five  a  m.  I  de- 
livered my  despatches  to  the  Secretary  of  Legation 
the  next  day,  and  found  he  was  from  Woodbury, 
Connecticut.  I  am  very  much  amused  in  the 
streets  with  everything,  soldiers,  peasai  ts,  bonnes^ 


*  Mostly  omitted. 


44 


PARIS   LIFE. 


[1849 


hand-bills  and  signs,  but  the  novelty  and  surprise 
is  that  I  feel  so  much  at  home,  and  find  people  so 
little  different  from  ours.  1  suppose  it  is  every- 
one's experience.  I  have  felt  also,  in  London  and 
in  Paris,  the  desolation  that  comes  at  first  in  a 
great  city,  but  the  loneliness  soon  wears  off.  I 
have  been  established  in  my  'appartement'  about 
half  an  hour,  and  expect  to  be  very  comfortable. 

"  I  enjoy  the  contrast  between  the  fashion  and 
splendor  of  the  Boulevards,  and  the  narrow  and  an- 
cient streets,  where  you  find  a  life  so  different  that 
you  might  think  yourself  in  another  world — lofty 
old  houses,  crammed  with  people  from  cellar  to  sky- 
light, but  in  all  their  darkness  preserving  some- 
thing of  the  attempt  at  elegance  that  makes  any 
house  in  Paris  prettier  than  any  house  elsewhere. 
The  women,  in  nice  caps,  go  about  as  if  life  were 
pleasant,  and  the  muddy  street  a  ball-room.  The 
Parisian  ladies  all  wear  stout  shoes,  and  sometimes 
gaiters  besides;  their  example  ought  to  be  followed 
by  ours,  who  are  sadly  imprudent,  even  with  our 
delightful  climate. 

"In  the  public  speaking,  though  there  is  plenty 
of  life  in  the  manner,  the  rising  inflection  constantly 
used  makes  it  monotonous  and  peculiar  at  first. 

"I  see  my  old  schoolmate,  Dick  Hunt,  all  the 
time;  he  is  working  hard  at  architecture,  with  a 
manly  and  patriotic  feeling  to  make  himself  of  use 
at  home.  He  has  passed  rapidly  and  successfully 
through  all  the  examinations.  The  French  system 
is  calculated  to  bring  out  any  original  powers  a 


I  { 


Mt.  21] 


/'AK/S    LIFE. 


man  has.  I  am  in  the  Louvre  all  the  time,  admir- 
ing, and  full  of  plans  for  improving  the  condition 
ot  t  le  fine  arts  in  my  own  country.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  few  men  place  their  hopes  higher 
than  their  powers,  and  therefore  expect  my  iriend 
JJiek  Hunt  will  do  good  work  at  home. 

"  I  feel  that  I  have  learnt  much  of  men  and  things, 
not  half  as  much  as  I  ought,  but  something  to  take 
the  romance  out  of  me,  and  to  do  away  with  the  idle 
dreamy  spirit  that  I  have  so  much  indulged,  until 
at  last  my  eyes  have  been  opened.  This  is  an  ep- 
och  in  my  life;  but  all  such  changes  are  sudden 

'  I  had  a  very  interesting  visit  to  the  school  where 
the  daughters  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  are  gratui- 

tously  educated In  one  room  there  were  forty. 

one  pianos  going  at  once,  and  each  on  a  diiforent 
piece.     Think  of  rattling  away  with  forty  others 
practicing  at  the  same  time  !     Habit  settles  it,  but 
It  must  injure  the  ear,  while  it  promotes  attention. 
It  IS  very  cold,  and  the  days  are  very  short,  yet  I 
feel  brighter  than  for  some  time.     I  start  in  good 
spirits,  and  hope  to  enjoy  myself  in  Italy,  going 
by  Avignon  and  Nismes,  to  Marseilles.     Love  to 
all  my  dear  friends.     I  have  longed  to  send  you 
some  of  the  pretty  Christmas  things  that  fill  the 
shop  windows." 

Exlracls  from  Jownal. 
"Dreamed  about  writing  a  book  on  Art.     The 
ideas  of  William  Hunt  are  certainly  very  fine  and 
good.     1  think  I  should  like  to  stay  in  Europe  and 


i! 


^i 


L. 


;,  .1 


III 


ii 


46 


JOURNAL. 


[1850 


go  into  diplomatic  life.  Talked  with  Dick  Hunt 
about  changing  our  seat  of  government,  and  lay- 
ing out  a  grand  new  city  as  a  national  monument. 
Hurrah!     We'll  do  it!" 

"  In  the  salon  of  the  Louvre,  devoted  to  portraits 
of  the  kings  of  France,  it  seemed  an  odd  coinci- 
dence that  Louis  Philippe's  portrait  fills  up  the 
very  last  space  that  is  left  in  the  room.  And  yet 
they  talk  here  as  if  Louis  Napoleon  would  make 
himself  emperor  before  long." 

Many  interesting  things  must  have  been  talked  of 
between  these  three  brilUant  young  men  and  the 
charming  women  of  the  Hunt  family,  and  excellent 
guides  and  teachers  they  must  have  been  in  Paris  life. 
Leaving  Paris,  he  goes  by  Lyons,  Nismes,  Avignon,  to 
Marseilles,  and  by  steamer  to  Genoa  and  Kome.  Here 
he  became  better  acquainted  with  Mr.  William  H. 
Aspinwall  and  his  family,  who  were  kind  friends  to 
him  then  and  in  the  future.  But  the  cloud  still 
hangs  over  him,  and  he  cannot  get  away  from  it  by 
change  of  place. 

"Owing  to  my  peculiar  state  of  health,  I  lose  a 
great  deal,  finding  it  quite  impossible  to  make  use 
of  all  the  opportunities  for  improvement  that  trav- 
eling affords.  I  find  myself  very  wretched,  wish- 
ing for  nothing  so  much  as  death,  and  yet  know- 
ing not  what  death  is." 

For  all  these  drawbacks,  he  sees  everything — Paris, 
the  Louvre,  Rachel,  Rome,  the  Carnival,  all,  and  more, 
that  tourists  of  that  day  usually  saw,  and  that  all  the 


iET.  21] 


THE    SOUTH. 


47 


world  knows  now  so  well— and  studied  French  and 
Italian  as  he  went.  Still  doubting  and  distrusting 
himself,  he  thinks  he  is  learning  little,  while  he  is 
absorbing  knowledge  at  every  pore. 

"  On  the  Avignon  steamer  was  a  motley  crowd. 
Among  the  soldiers  was  a  small  man  of  fifty-five 
or  sixty,  with  keen  and  sharp  features,  a  grizzled 
moustache,  and  long  imperial,  wearing  a  colonel's 
uniform,  decorated,  and  in  all  respects,  as  I  sup- 
posed, un.  veritable  Chasseur  cCAfrique.  I  learned 
that  this  colonel  was  the  painter,  Horace  Vernet, 
on  his  way  to  make  some  sketches  for  the  gov- 
ernment. He  is  a  colonel  of  the  National  Guard, 
and  1  suppose  wears  the  uniform  from  fancy.  At 
Avignon,  his  birthplace,  is  the  famous  Mazeppa 
that  you  have  so  often  seen  engraved." 

"Rome,  Feb.  3d,  1850. 

"Dear  Mother,— Forgive  the  stupidity  of  my 
letters.  Attention  and  observation  have  become 
my  only  faculties;  cramming  my  only  occupation. 
Some  time  I  hope  to  digest  all  this.  Men  are  known 
and  formed  by  the  company  they  keep,  and  when 
one's  sole  companion  is  John  Murray — 'the  trav- 
eler's Bible,'  what  can  you  expect  ?  I  am  staying 
a  little  longer  here,  for  the  sake  of  the  Carnival, 
though  the  feeling  of  the  people  will  prevent  much 
of  the  usual  gayety ;  but  you  know  it  would  hardly 
do  to  miss  a  thing  that  one  has  heard  so  much 
about,  and  one  of  the  great  lions  of  the  modern 
world.  The  pleasure  of  my  stay  in  Rome  has  been 
very  much  increased  by  the  kindness  of  the  C 's, 


I    :      L        ,t 


I  i 


48 


ROME. 


[1850 


and  I  have  a  new  set  of  friends  in  the  Aspinwalls. 
But  I  must  tell  you  how  I  got  here.  It  was  a 
lovely  sail  by  steamer  from  Marseilles  to  Genoa. 
That  being  my  first  Italian  town,  interested  me 
extremely,  in  a  thousand  different  ways — the  cos- 
tumes of  the  men,  the  picturesque  veils  of  the 
women,  the  delightful  narrow  streets,  the  palaces, 
the  Vandykes.  We  landed  at  Leghorn  in  a  snow- 
storm, and  the  next  day  had  to  put  into  the  harbor 
of  San  Stefano.  The  country  between  Civita  Vecchia 
and  Rome  was  the  most  desolate  I  ever  saw  or  im- 
agined— only  a  fcAV  huts,  and  shepherds  clad  in 
goat  skins,  more  shaggy  than  the  goats  they  tended, 
and  far  more  savage  than  the  beautiful  gray  oxen. 
With  this  desert  on  one  side,  and  the  glorious  sea 
on  the  other,  the  solitude  was  strange  and  intense. 
I  ran  about  Rome  the  next  day,  full  of  excitement, 
till  I  reached  the  Capitol,  and  climbed  the  tower  at 
top,  from  whence  I  had  all  Rome  at  my  feet.  There, 
my  dear  mother,  was  the  Forum !  and  between  me 
and  it  a  succession  of  ruins,  triumphal  arches, 
broken  pillars ;  enough  to  suggest  the  ancient  mag- 
nificence; enough  to  make  me  feel  that  this  was 
Rome,  and  recall  a  few  of  the  lessons  that  formed 
the  boy  and  influenced  the  young  man.  The  day 
was  superb,  and  the  mountains,  covered  with  snow, 
made  an  admirable  background;  below,  the  eye  lost 
itself  in  the  great  plain  of  the  Campagna,  seem- 
ing like  a  great  lake.  Towards  the  west  were 
the  heights  of  the  Janiculum  and  the  Vatican, 
crowned  with  stone  pines,  and  to  the  north  Mod- 


Mr.  21] 


KOME. 


49 


era  Rome  domed  up!     After  satisfying  my  eyes 
with  a  good  long  look,  I  took  out  my  map,  and 
studied  the  localities,  till  I  felt  pretty  well  at  home, 
and  then  started  for  an  exploration,  in  which  I  will 
not  force  you  to  follow  me.     You  do  not  want  a 
description  of  St.  Peter's,  and  1  will  only  say  that 
I  was  not  disappointed,  though  it  seemed  some- 
what different  from  my  preconceived  ideas. 
One  thing  that  impressed  me  in  the  sculptures  of 
the  Vatican  was  the  wonderful  life-like  perfection 
of  the  animals,  and  they  have  been  very  interest- 
ing to  me.     I  did  not  know  how  admirable  in  na- 
ture and  expression  the  lions,  tigers,  horses,  dogs 
and  birds  of  the  ancients  were,  and  so  I  had  an 
agreeable  surprise  in  the  hall  of  animals;  finding 
myself  in  a  petrified  menagerie,  only  needing  the 
spell  reversed,  to  let  loose  their  fury 'upon  me. 

"One  of  the  great  charms  to  me  in  Rome  has 
been  the  multitude  of  beautiful  views  that  you 
have  on  every  side;  making  n  w  combinations  of 
river,  mountain,  and  the  broad  expanse  of  the 
Campagna,  with  the  mass  of  the  modern  city,  and 
the  ruins  of  the  old.  Any  one  of  these  alone  were 
worth  coming  to  Rome  for,  as  I  felt  while  lying 
this  morning  in  the  sun,  in  front  of  the  church  of 
St.  Onofrio,  looking  down  upon  the  city,  and  giv- 
ing myself  to  quiet  enjoyment.  Then  I  entered 
the  church,  interesting  for  some  pictures,  and  par- 
ticularly as  being  the  place  where  the  poet  was 
buried  whom  I  have  to  thank  for  some  of  my  hap- 
piest hours.     It  was  in  the  convent  of  San  Onofrio 


1^  ! 


i!    ; 


50 


NAPLES. 


[1850 


that  Tasso  passed  the  few  hist  days  of  his  life.  You 
may  imagine  that  I  felt  some  interest  in  standing 
by  the  grave  of  the  man  who  has  Christianized 
my  Diomed  into  my  Tancred.  The  monk  wlio  was 
my  guide  took  me  into  his  apartment,  which  still 
contains  some  of  his  little  private  effects — a  pen- 
case,  a  reading-glass,  a  crucifix,  an  autograph  let- 
ter written  just  before  his  death." 

"iVa|)kj»,  Feb.  17th,  I860. 

"The  views  leaving  Kome  and  on  the  journey 
were  most  interesting.  I  arrived  here  just  too  late 
for  a  magnificent  eruption  of  Vesuvius,  but  I  has- 
tened to  ascend,  in  hopes  of  seeing  its  effects.  The 
air  here  is  delicious,  the  sky  and  water  beautiful — 
it  is  a  divine  place — 'all  save  the  spirit  of  man ' — 1 
have  enjoyed  the  museum,  the  Pompeian  relics  of 
Art,  and  the  noble  antique  statues." 

These  European  letters  alone  would  fill  a  volume, 
and  it  is  necessary  to  hasten  on,  and  omit  all  but  what 
is  characteristic  of  himself. 

"Friday,  March  8th. 

*'  1  am  at  Athens,  where  I  arrived  to-day.  We 
had  a  delightful  sail  to  Messina,  down  the  beauti- 
ful Bay  of  Naples  and  along  the  purple  shores  of 
Sicily.  Soon  after  leaving  Messina,  we  came  in 
sight  of  a  very  large  mountain,  rising  far  above  its 
neighbors.  At  first,  though  its  outline  seemed 
strangely  familiar,  I  did  not  make  it  out,  but  as 
we  approached  there  could  i  e  no  mistaking  Etna! 


^T.  21] 


THE    ISLES   OF  GREECE. 


51 


I 


At  sunset,  its  form  was  still  clear  against  the  sky. 
Next  morning  we  arrived  at  Malta.  This  climate 
is  said  to  be  intolerable,  the  island  becomes  a  sort 
of  griddle,  and  already,  March  5th,  it  is  too  warm, 
and  roses  in  bloom.  We  left  Malta  in  a  beautiful 
sunset,  and  I  was  just  able  to  get  on  deck  the  sec- 
ond evening  in  time  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  shores 
of  Greece.  We  were  just  in  view  of  the  southern 
headlands  of  Laconia,  and  next  morning  were  fairly 
along  shore,  with  the  isles  of  Greece  on  every  side, 
and  between  the  shores  of  Argolis  and  ^gina  on 
one  hand,  and  Sunium  on  the  other.  Passing 
.Egina,  we  could  see  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of 
Jupiter,  Pan  Hellenus,  and  already  the  Acropolis 
had  been  some  time  in  sight.  The  view  in  ap- 
proaching was  fine — the  plain  of  Athens,  sur- 
rounded by  a  great  semicircle  of  mountains, 
with  the  harbor  of  the  Pirajus  in  the  foreground, 
filled  with  ships  of  different  flags,  and  to  the 
left  the  bay  of  Salamis,  where  the  English  fleet 
is  lying. 

"The  first  thing  that  struck  me  was  the  exces- 
sive barrenness  of  the  country,  increased  by  the 
intense  cold  of  the  past  winter,  which  has  de- 
stroyed almost  everything — oranges,  palms,  and 
even  olives;  I  have  been  told  that  the  snow  lay 
fourteen  inches  deep  in  the  streets,  and  the  mer- 
cury went  down  to  IG'^  F.  To  get  a  good  impres- 
sion of  Athens  one  should  enter  from  Elensis; 
there  the  country  is  more  cultivated,  and  the 
Acropolis  descends  more  boldly  on  that  side. 


1 1: 


ill  f^l^ 


n;  ^ 


^  III 


A  THENS, 


[1850 


*'  I  strolled  about,  feeling  very  miserable  after 
five  days  of  seasickness,  until  I  was  restored  by 
seeing  the  columns  of  Jupiter  Olympus,  and  I  lin- 
gered about,  enjoying  the  view,  till  the  sun  went 
down  most  gloriously  behind  the  mountains  on  the 
other  side,  making  long  shadows  from  the  crags 
that  break  the  surface  of  the  plain,  'i'he  llissus, 
you  know,  is  only  a  brook,  dry  in  the  summer,  but 
the  ravine  is  picturesque,  and  there  is  a  pretty 
little  cascade  close  by  th'  temple.  Altogether 
the  view  was  beautiful,  hei^-htened  by  the  fresh 
green  of  the  springing  wheat,  and  had  accessories 
that  only  Athens  could  show. 

'*Next  morning  we  spent  several  hours  at  the 
Acropolis.  You  can  imagine  I  was  glad  to  stand 
there,  and  see  with  my  eyes  and  my  imagination 
what  Pericles  saw.  Nature  has  remained  the  same, 
and  these  beautiful  shores  and  waters  are  now  as 
then.  It  requires  but  little  help  from  the  fancy  to 
restore  and  repeople  these  unrivaled  shores.  I 
was  surprised  to  find  how  large  a  portion  of  the 
ruins  remain  lying  about,  so  that  a  great  deal  could 
be  set  up  again,  but  of  course  it  would  not  be 
desirable. 

"  On  Monday  we  were  oif  with  a  party  for  Mara- 
thon. Leaving  Athens  we  passed  over  an  extensive 
plain,  with  Hymettus  on  our  right  and  Pentelicus 
just  before,  with  other  mountains  stretching  all 
about.  The  scene,  with  the  fine  cool  morning  air, 
produced  with  me  an  exhilaration  that  was  almost 
childish  delight.     I  go  too  easily  from  one  extreme 


JEt.  21] 


MANATiroS', 


to  the  other.  We  passed  a  gruvo  of  very  remark- 
able old  olives,  *  older  than  Christianity,'  the  guide 
said,  gnarled  and  twisted,  and  curiously  knotted, 
like  cables.  The  road  was  the  worst  I  ever  saw, 
and  some  of  the  party  performed  singular  feats 
of  horsemanship,  rudely  severing  all  ties.  After 
winding  for  a  long  time  among  the  rocks,  we 
began  to  go  down  an  almost  precipitous  descent, 
and  saw  before  us  the  plain  of  Marathon,  with  the 
sea  making  a  most  exquisite  curve  within  a  point, 
and  in  the  background  the  blue  heights  of  Eubnea. 
We  had  a  good  gallop  over  the  plain,  though  some 
of  it  is  marshy.  It  is  covered  with  white  narcissus, 
and  there  were  plenty  of  little  daisies  and  bluebells, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  especial  flower  of  Greece,  the 
beautiful  anemone  or  paparona,  in  all  colors,  from 
white,  through  all  the  shades  of  pink,  to  a  deep 
rich  purple  and  brilliant  scarlet,  which  carpets  the 
ground. 

"  A  little  elevation,  called  the  tomb  of  the  Athe- 
nians, gives  you  an  excellent  view.  It  seems  a 
capital  place  for  the  movements  of  infantry,  though 
rather  heavy  for  cavalry,  and  with  the  rugged 
heights  behind,  is  an  exceedingly^  strong  position. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  more  of  what  I  have  done, 
as,  for  example,  the  ascent  of  Pentelicus." 


"4prin3th,  1880. 

"  I  wrote  last  from  Athens,  just  before  starting 
for  a  tour  in  the  Morea.  Of  course  we  go  on  horse- 
back, as  thex'e  are  only  three  carriage  roads  in 


54 


THE   MORE  A 


[1850 


Greece,  and  we  take  a  guide  and  all  necessaries 
with  us,  as  there  are  no  hotels.  The  road  from 
Athens  to  Megara  is  exceedingly  beautiful.  Leav- 
ing Athens,  you  turn  up  tlie  pass  of  Daphne,  hav- 
ing a  superb  view  of  the  Acropolis,  the  Parthenon, 
Pentelicus,  the  town,  and  the  bay,  seeing  the  whole 
across  the  green  plain,  and  the  olives  of  the  Aca- 
deme— a  simple,  striking  view,  that  takes  hold  of 
the  mind  and  the  memory  like  no  other.  Passing 
the  little  monastery  of  Daphne,  between  two  hills, 
you  come  upon  a  view  different  but  equally  fine — 
the  lovely  sweep  of  the  bay  of  Eleusis-Salamis,  and 
the  lofty  mountains  behind  Megara;  the  waters  a 
glorious  blue,  such  as  you  find  only  in  these  seas, 
and  the  mountains  of  clear  yet  softened  tints,  as 
they  are  always  in  Greece,  like  forget-me-nots.  I 
have  become  by  this  time  enough  of  a  traveler  not 
to  be  frightened  by  any  place,  however  dirty,  and 
go  everywhere,  and  look  at  everything,  sure  al- 
ways that  what  a  '  Milordo  Aniericane '  does,  will 
always  be  right.  Thus  I  have  got  a  very  good 
idea  of  life  in  Greece.  From  Megara  I  started  for 
Corinth,  in  a  violent  snow-storm.  The  roads  in 
Greece  are  as  bad  as  possible,  they  are  half  noun- 
tain,  and  half  mud.  Next  day  to  Nauplia,  and 
the  fourth  to  Argos,  and  returned  to  Athens  nearly 
by  the  same  route.  I  hope  *  something  to  my  ad- 
vantage '  may  t  ?  up  one  of  these  days,  and  give 
me  an  opportunity  of  seeing  oil  the  ivoAd. 

"You  may  think  my  desires  for  longer  travel 
absurd  with  my  means,  but  I  have  already  con- 


; 


■I 


Mt.  21] 


THERMOPYL^. 


suited  prudence,  and  turned  back  from  Constan- 
tinople and  the  Turks. 

"  My  second  tour  in  Greece  was  to  Thermopyl?©. 
The  scenery  of  Greece  is  almost  peculiar  to  itself 
Wood  is  rather  rare,  but  many  of  the  higher 
mountains  are  thickly  covered  with  pines,  whose 
dark  foliage  contrasts  with  the  brilliant  white  snow, 
and  the  brilliant  blue  above;  soft  mists  and  heavy 
clouds  hang  over  the  summits,  and  there  are  num- 
berless ravines,  chasms,  gorges,  dells,  most  exquis- 
itely beautiful,  that  a  thousand  times  repay  for  the 
vexations  of  the  journey.  Returning  from  Ther- 
mopylge,  the  clouds  breaking  suddenly  showed  me 
Parnassus  just  in  front,  capped  with  heavy  snow; 
farther  off  I  could  see  the  familiar  outline  of  Heli- 
con and  its  outlying  hills,  and  Cithseron  faintly  in 
the  distance.  These  noble  mountains  were  the 
grander  features  of  the  scene,  Parnassus  rising 
abruptly  from  the  lake-like  plain,  green  and  un- 
inclosed.  To  pay  for  this  we  had  to  put  up  at  a 
wretched  Khan,  where  the  fleas  left  not  an  inch 
untouched  as  I  lay  on  the  floor,  an  owl  hooted  all 
night  over  my  head,  and  a  boy  coughed  awfully. 
For  one  moment  I  dropped  asleep,  and  the  next 
awoke  with  a  dream  that  the  day  of  judgment  had 
come.  This  was  on  the  site  of  the  old  Cheronsea. 
The  lovely  anemones  were  my  companions  for  the 
whole  journey." 

"renice,  April  IQth,  1850. 

"To-night  Venice  has  been  enchanting!    Always, 
even  in  the  remorseless  glare  of  noonday,  the  Pi- 


i 


56 


VENICE. 


[1850 


azza  di  San  Marco  is  like  the  vision  of  a  fairy  tale, 
but  this  evening,  moonlight,  darkened  each  mo- 
ment by  passing  clouds,  has  given  the  scene  a  ro- 
mantic charm  that  no  words  of  mine  can  present. 
I  walked  until  my  feet  ached,  trying  to  stop,  but 
compelled  to  go  on.  The  moon  shone  from  time 
to  time  on  the  water,  and  the  Salute,  and  San 
Giorgio,  while  on  the  other  side  a  heavy  black 
mass  of  clouds  shone  now  and  then  with  sudden 
lightning,  against  which  the  great  Campanile  stood 
grandly.  Again  I  say,  it  was  enchanting!  The 
romance  that  gives  interest  to  the  very  name  of 
Venice  meets  with  no  disappointment  when  tested 
by  reality.  As  usual,  it  is  different  from  your  ex- 
pectations, and  you  regret  the  sad  decay  that  shows 
itself  everywhere,  but  the  novelty  and  real  beauty 
that  remain  are  quite  enough  to  make  it  most  memor- 
able among  the  scenes  that  a  traveler  would  recall. 
But  this  pleasure  could  not  last;  a  life  here,  I  should 
think,  would  be  almost  insupportable :  man  is  not 
amphibious,  and  the  perpetual  and  unstable  gon- 
dola; the  canal  at  every  turn,  green  and  muddy, 
instead  of  3^our  own  little  grass-plat;  the  want  of 
the  cheerful  rattle  and  bustle  of  a  crowded  city,  all 
this  would  make  Venice  a  place  to  wonder  at  and 
admire,  but  where  you  would  feel  always  afloat^ 
and  never  have  a  home  feeling.  The  climate  here 
is  very  injurious  to  pictures  and  marbles,  and  causes 
the  buildings  to  decay.  Padua  is  one  great  studi- 
ous cloister.  Everywhere  the  country  is  putting 
on  spring  colors,  and  the  horse-chestnut  blossoms 


'4 


I 


Mt.  21] 


FLO/HENCE. 


57 


cany  me  home  at  once,  as  I  think  of  the  beautiful 
tree  opposite  our  house." 

"Visiting  Verona,  and  all  the  cities  of  northern  Italy, 
we  find  hini  next  at  Florence,  where,  as  usual,  he  ob- 
serves closely  people  and  things,  art  and  nature,  and 
writes  minutely. 

"  The  situation  of  Florence  is  the  most  beautiful 
that  you  can  imagine,  in  the  midst  of  green  hills 
scattered  with  villas.  This  is  May,  the  most  lovely 
month  in  Italy.  I  begin  to  understand  what  the 
poets  mean  by  May,  and  also  to  realize  the  actual 
beauty  of  the  highly  praised  Italian  sky.  Since 
the  weather  has  become  settled,  we  have  had 
Claude  sunsets  in  abundance.  There  is  no  more 
clearness,  no  more  brilliant  coloring,  than  at  home, 
ours  cannot  be  equaled  for  gorgeousness  of  cloud- 
scenery,  but  there  is  a  sort  of  impalpable  haze, 
that  refines  the  outlines,  and  makes  the  tints  more 
delicate,  without  indistinctness.  Just  before  sun- 
set, the  horizontal  rays  are  intercepted  by  this  me- 
dium, and  it  makes  itself  visible,  veiling  but  not 
hiding,  and  throwing  a  rich  golden  glow  over 
everything,  and  giving  you  exactly  the  effect  that 
you  see  in  Claude's  scenes,  but  with  all  the  inten- 
sity of  Nature. 

"  It  would  take  me  a  week  to  tell  you  all  I  have 
seen  in  the  galleries  and  streets  of  Florence  and 
Siena.  Whether  any  of  the  celebrated  works  of 
art  deserve  the  enthusiastic  admiration  lavished 
upon  them  I  have  long  ceased  to  doubt." 


ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 


[1850 


By  Pistoja  he  goes  on  through  lovely  scenery  to 
the  Batlis  of  Lucca,  "the  beau  ideal  of  a  water- 
ing-place," to  Pisa,  *'the  beauty  of  whose  wonder- 
ful Piazza,  so  quiet,  solemn,  and  apart,  with  its 
unrivaled  group  of  buildings,  the  world  can  hardly 
equal,"  ran  down  again  to  Genoa  by  the  Riviera  di 
Ponente,  where  "  some  of  the  views  over  land  and 
water  are  as  beautiful  as  mind  can  conceive,"  by 
the  magnificent  Gulf  of  Spezia  and  Carrara.  From 
Genoa  to  Nice,  to  see  the  Riviera,  which  well  de- 
serves all  the  praise  bestowed  upon  it.  Such  views 
are  quite  indescribable,  and  the  road  itself,  and  the 
little  towns  are  greatly  to  be  admired."  To  the 
modern,  brilliant  city  of  Turin,  to  gay  Milan, 
"  where,  though  you  may  criticise,  you  would  ra- 
ther give  yourself  up  to  the  solemn  reverence  that 
a  truly  Gothic  Cathedral,  the  noblest  work  of  man, 
inspires.  It  is  a  most  fairy-like  place,  the  stone 
seems  to  lose  its  qut  lity  of  weight,  while  it  retains 
that  of  stability  and  strength.  This  is  partly  owing 
to  the  finish  of  the  details.  You  begin  resolutely 
.  to  study  the  lines  of  the  foundation,  but  before  you 
know  it  you  run  up  a  buttress  to  its  exquisite  statue 
and  pinnacle,  and  lose  yourself  in  the  blue  sky.  I 
have  seen  nearly  all  the  best  specimens  of  monu- 
mental architecture  in  Italy,  many  of  them  hidden 
carefully  under  curtains,  or  a  lock  and  key ;  here 
you  have  a  great  building  quite  as  delicately 
wrought,  and  standing  freely  in  public  gaze." 

By  the  fascinating  old  towns  of  Bergamo  and 
Brescia,  he  makes  the  tour  of  the  Italian  Lakes. 


V 


^T.  21] 


SWITZERLAND. 


59 


♦ri 


"The  world  is  full  of  flowers  now,  the  fields  sccarlet 
with  poppies,  the  views  the  loveliest  that  eyes  ever 
beheld." 

"  St.  Gall,  Switzerland,  June  30th,  1860. 

"  My  Dear  Mother, — From  a  fair  and  lovely  spot 
in  this  land,  whose  exquisite  beauty  and  wild 
grandeur  have  begun  to  open  upon  me,  I  begin 
on  Sunday  morning  my  first  letter  from  Switzer- 
land to  those  I  love  best.  We  walked  over  tlie 
Spliigen  Pass  from  Chiavenna.  Parts  of  the  pass 
are  richly  wooded  with  chestnuts,  then  beeches 
and  ashes,  whose  delicate  foliage,  in  contrast  with 
evergreens,  clothes  the  mountain  sides.  You  soon 
become  so  hardened  to  waterfalls  that  you  hardly 
notice  them.  Then  come  the  flowers,  and  then  the 
stern  desolation  of  the  heights,  silent  and  lonely, 
save  for  the  friendly  trickle  of  some  little  stream 
that  accompanies  you  on  your  way,  growing  as 
you  descend.  And  then  what  a  charm  the  smiling 
valleys  have,  with  their  villages,  pastures  and  or- 
chards (almost  like  home),  after  the  stupendous 
Via  Mala ! 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  no  river  in  the  world  that 
does  so  much  as  the  Rhine !  The  more  I  think  of 
this  country  of  Switzerland,  the  more  wonderful 
it  seems  to  me, — the  great  watershed  of  Europe, 
the  home  of  freedom,  the  strong  barrier,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  populous  lands,  a  hermitage,  a  solitude, 
where  man  can  retire  to  worship  God,  and  measure 

himself  with  nature.     At  Coire,  P left  me,  and 

I  got  a  splendid  knapsack,  and  went  on  alone  to 


SWITZERLAND. 


[1850 


the  baths  of  Pfaffers,  a  most  interesting  place, 
where  you  seem  to  be  let  completely  into  the  se- 
crets of  Nature.  Leaving  this,  I  follow  down  the 
valley  of  the  Rhine,  and  reaxih  the  lovely  village 
ofWildhaus."    .    .     . 


Ill 


It  were  pleasant  to  accompany  him  in  his  pedestrian 
tour  through  Switzerland;  but  his  minute  and  enthu- 
siastic accounts  of  all  the  usual  and  unusual  routes, 
peaks,  passes,  and  glaciers,  would  occupy  too  much 
space.  He  made  the  "tour  of  Monte  Rosa,"  the 
"tour  of  Mont  Blanc,"  walked  immensely,  but  made 
no  great  ascensions.  During  the  tour  of  Mont  Blanc, 
he  ascended  a  mountain  called  the  Cramont,  famous 
for  one  of  the  best  views  of  the  great  peak. 

*'  Getting  what  I  thought  sufficient  directions,  I 
started  off  alone,  the  mountain  being  directly  in 
front  of  the  village  (of  Cormayeur).  For  a  couple 
of  hours  the  ascent  was  not  difficult,  and  after  a 
pleasant  walk,  with  the  view  of  Mont  Blanc  grow- 
ing finer  and  finer,  I  found  myself  at  the  foot  of 
the  precipitous  portion  of  the  ascent,  a  distance  of 
about  2000  feet,  the  whole  height  being  8000. 
Here  I  found  a  cowboy  who  showed  me  the  path 
to  the  top,  which,  making  a  detour,  avoided  the 
precipice  by  climbing  an  ascent  nearly  as  steep. 
It  is  always  one  of  the  pleasant  things  among  the 
Alps  to  meet  with  human  faces,  and  human  habi- 
tations, with  their  cheerful  accompaniments  of  cow- 
bells. I  pulled  up  this  sharp  ascent  for  nearly  an 
hour,  and  then  found  farther  progress  stopped  by 


II 


^r.  21] 


MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURES. 


61 


i 


a  wall  of  rook  ahead,  while  the  path  turned  round 
it.  I  looked  up  the  wall,  and  supposing  it  only 
an  affair  of  a  couple  hundred  feet  or  so,  determined 
upon  an  escalade,  and  picking  out  a  good  place 
began  my  climb.  The  wall  was  very  much  like 
the  face  of  East  Rock,  but  being  of  broken  flaky 
limestone  it  afforded  footing  and  handhold,  though 
neither  very  secure,  so  that  after  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  of  really  very  hard  work,  I  reached  the  point 
which  I  had  supposed  to  be  the  summit.  Imagine 
my  surprise  and  almost  consternation,  when  I  found 
that  the  crag  I  had  attained  was  nothing  more 
than  a  bastion  of  the  grand  wall,  which,  higher 
and  more  inaccessible,  towered  above  my  head.  I 
felt  myself  *in  a  fix.'  To  descend,  I  was  sure  was 
almost  impossible.  To  get  up  had  been  dangerous, 
and  I  did  not  dare  to  go  over  it,  with  the  addi- 
tional impetus  of  down-hill  work.  I  looked  up  at 
the  frowning  wall  before  me,  and  down  the  one 
which  I  had  ascended,  and  knew  that  if  my  hand 
or  foot  should  fail  me,  or  if  a  stone  should  give 
way,  it  was  quite  unlikely  that  I  should  write  any 
more  letters  home.  The  view  from  this  point  was 
very  grand,  for  I  had  taken  my  seat  upon  a  point 
of  rock,  and  could  look  at  it  quietly.  This  side  of 
Mont  Blanc  is  bolder,  and  less  hidden  by  other 
summits  than  that  towards  Chamounix,  the  rest 
of  the  chain  too  is  very  grand,  particularly  the 
column-like  crag  of  the  Geant,  and  the  serrated 
edge  of  the  Jorasses.  The  morning  mists  had 
rolled  away,  and  all  their  snows  glittered  against 


> 


62 


MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURES. 


[1850 


the  metallic  luster  of  the  sky.  I  could  see  directly 
uuder  my  feet  the  chalets  I  had  passed  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  smoku  of  some  charcoal  burners'  fires. 
Even  the  sound  of  the  bells  came  up  distinctly  to 
my  ears.  Except  a  little  of  the  valley  of  Corma- 
yeur  the  lest  was  all  a  prison-like  wall  of  rock,  a 
prison  with  a  door  large  enough  indeed,  but  which 
opened  into  a  place  as  disagreeable  as  would  have 
been  the  ouhlkiic  of  a  torture  chamber,  if  the  un- 
fortunate culprit  could  have  looked  before  he  leaped. 
However,  it  did  not  take  me  as  long  as  the  writ- 
ing of  these  lines  to  decide,  that,  as  1  could  not  go 
down,  and  could  not  spend  my  life  in  this  spot,  I 
must  go  up ;  so  collecting  myself,  and  putting  my 
trust  in  Providence,  I  went  at  it,  tooth  and  nail. — 
I  don't  care  about  tiring  you  with  the  rest  of  my 
climb — I  should  not  like  to  do  it  again — and  when, 
after  an  escalade  of  an  hour,  1  found  myself  at 
the  summit,  my  first  act  was  to  kneel  down  and 
thank  God  that  my  life,  however  useless,  had  been 
preserved  for  a  time.  After  enjoying  the  superb 
panorama  of  mountains  from  the  top,  I  descended 
on  the  back,  where  for  a  short  distance  it  is  some- 
what steep,  but  nothing  in  comparison 

The  next  day  about  three  o'clock  I  found  myself  quite 
a  lion  among  some  guides,  for  having  already  done 
what  they  considered  a  long  day's  journey,  and  in- 
tending to  do  four  hours  more.  At  six,  we  reached 
the  charming  baths  of  St.  Gervais.  I  was  so  little 
tired  with  my  walk  of  thirteen  hours,  that  I  was  al- 
most ready  for  a  dance  they  got  up  in  the  evening." 


Ji 


' 


f 


)50 


Mt.  21] 


GERMANY  AND   HOLLAND. 


8. 
FO 


a 


Five  closely-written  sheets  do  not  suffice  for  his  de- 
light in  Chamounix  and  its  excursions,  "its  sunsets 
that  cannot  be  described,  its  unsullied  noonday  skies." 
The  letter  closes  at  Geneva,  the  end  of  his  Swiss  tour. 
Again  he  says, 

"  I  close  this  letter  at  Frankfort,  filled  with  hope- 
ful thoughts  for  you  all.  A  year  and  more  has 
passed  since  I  left  home,  a  year  which  seems  to  me 
like  the  vision  of  a  dream.  I  have  walked  in  my 
sleep,  and  seen  things  without  knowing  how.  The 
autumn  begins  to  come  on  again,  and  the  wind  to 
have  a  gloomy  sound,  so  I  am  glad  I  have  no  more 
space  to  fill  to-day." 

Another  very  long  letter  tells  of  a  visit  to  Strasbourg, 
to  Baden,  the  Rhine,  Heidelberg,  Cologne,  and  takes 
him  to  Holland.  He  finds  a  resemblance  between 
Amsterdam  and  New  York — 


"all  but  its  extreme  cleanliness.  It  shows  the 
corruption  of  the  world  that  a  place  should  be  ad- 
mired for  what  ought  to  be  a  matter  of  course. 
The  windmills  are  the  most  striking  objects.  In 
some  directions  they  seem  to  be  in  forests,  and  woe 
would  it  have  been  to  Don  Quixote  if  he  had  found 
himself  in  such  a  throng;  the  watermills  would 
have  ducked  him,  the  sawmills  sliced  him,  like  any 
bit  of  tough  old  timber,  the  oilmills  squeezed  the 
juices  out  of  his  hungry  carcass,  and  the  gristmills 
finished  the  unfortunate  hero  by  making  him  into 
sausage  meat." 


G4 


PARIS. 


[1850 


"I  close  in  Paris,  where  I  am  now  established, 
after  finishing  my  tonr  in  Holland,  and  seeing 
something  of  Belgium.  I  have  a  room  across  the 
river  in  the  Hue  (^e  lUniversite^  for  which  lam  to 
pay  2b  francs  a  month.  My  breakfast  costs  2  sous, 
and  my  dinner  in  proportion.  Sunday  next  being 
Sept.  22d,  I  attain  the  age  of  22.  Such  a  com- 
bination of  2's  ought  to  produce  good  fortune.  I 
am  rather  young  still!  I  am  studying  French,  hard, 
and  take  a  lesson  every  day.  In  the  past  year  I 
have  learned  a  thing  or  two,  and  Paris  seems  to 
me  like  an  old  friend,  with  whom  I  can  look  back 
upon  the  past.  And  yet  with  what  different  eyes 
I  look  upon  it  all !  If  it  were  not  for  the  assurance 
of  your  love,  and  the  hope  of  making  myself  worthy 
of  it,  and  of  showing,  to  you  and  to  others,  that  all 
your  thoughtfulness,  all  your  sacrifices,  and  all  the 
power  of  your  beautiful  example,  have  had  their  in- 
fluence in  saving  me  from  intellectual  and  moral 
worthlessness, — if  it  were  i  -t  for  vou  and  a  few 
others  who  love  me, — Life,  with  its  weary  weight 
of  mysteries  and  doubts,  of  hopeless  searchings 
into  an  obdurate  future,  of  disgusts  and  contempts, 
of  unanswerable  questionings,  would  lose  all  that 
makes  it  even  endurable.  An  almost  total  despair 
sometimes  comes  over  me !  Can  even  love,  can 
even  Faith,  make  this  existence  tolerable?"    .    .    . 

••i'an's,  Dec.  12th,  1850. 

"My  Dear  Mother, — The  interval  that  has  elapsed 
since  you  last  heard  from  me,  did  not  come  from 
negligence.     It  was  the  desire  to  give  you  a  sur- 


1 


150 


Ml.  22] 


//0M£   AGA/JSr. 


65 


le 
o 

r 

3 


f 


jM'ise.  I  had  thouglit  it  out  a  dozon  times^how  I 
nlionld  reach  New  York  in  the  evening,  too  hite 
for  the  last  train  for  HOME!  How  I  should  rush 
over  to  Staten  Island, — a  terra  incoiinifa  to  nie — 
and  find  them  just  locking  up;  then  arriving  next 
morning  at  New  Haven,  should  enter  by  the  back 
door,  and  catch  all  the  family  in  the  midst  of  their 
several  avocations.  With  this  idea  in  my  mind  I 
refrained  from  writing,  lest  I  should  betray  myself 
I  shall  not  tell  you  what  steamer  I  intend  to  take, 
expect  me  till  I  come;  it  will  not  be  so  soon  as  you 
think,  and  I  want  to  spare  you  the  anxiety  of  count- 
ing days.  It  seems  hard  to  go  home,  yet  inexpress- 
ibly joyful !  The  very  prospect  makes  my  heart 
almost  leap  out  of  my  mouth,  and  writing  seems 
absurd.  No  more  husks!  Hurrah!  fatted  calves 
and  best  robes,  for  the  Enfant  Prodigue  is  coming 
home !  Put  your  best  foot  foremost,  everybody, 
and  take  me  to  your  heart  again,  my  beloved 
mother.  ;        T.  W." 

On  his  return  home,  in  Jan.,  1851,  he  writes  in  his 
journal: 

"I  can  now  see  that  I  have  gained  much.  I 
have  placed  myself  on  a  higher  level,  whence  1 
can  look  at  my  increased  forces,  and  see  that  they 
are,  in  some  respects,  ready  for  battle.  They  are 
but  raw  levies,  willing,  but  ignorant  and  undisci- 
plined— there  is  nothing  of  the  steadiness  of  veteran 
troops  about  them.  It  will  be  a  work  of  time,  but 
I  hope  they  will  turn  out  good  soldiers. 


66 


NFAV  LIFE. 


[1851 


"  I  would  not  now  f^ive  up  any  of  the  lessouR  I 
learned  in  Europe,  and  I  wish  I  could  remember 
how  I  learned  them.  No  more,  I  hope,  fihall  I  waste 
time  in  deploring.  I  shall  bewail  no  more  that  I 
have  done  no  more.  I  shall  try  to  avoid  looking  back 
with  the  morbid  self-reproachful  feeling,  which  I 
have  encouraged,  rather  than  checked,  thus  far.  It 
is  a  dangerous  thing  to  my  progress.  I  could  wish 
that  I  had  an  accurate  history  of  that  miserable 
three  months  I  spent  in  Paris." 

From  this  time  begins  a  new  era  in  his  life,  a  time 
of  new  resolves,  of  greater  firmness,  of  greater  cheer- 
fulness and  courage.  Some  poems,  written  about  these 
days,  express  this  mood,  and  show  also  that  he  had 
begun  to  grasp  words  and  rhythm,  ?.nd  to  prove  his 
weapons.  Not  a  single  poem  that  he  ever  wrote  ap- 
pears to  be  finished,  or  to  have  received  the  last 
touches  from  his  hand,  but  were  fragments,  scribbled 
on  the  backs  of  letters  and  other  scraps  of  paper,  and 
thrown  aside.  There  is  a  swing  and  a  life  in  the  fol- 
lowing lines,  as  if  they  were  thought  out  as  he  paced 
the  deck  while  nearing  the  country  he  loved  so  well, 
while  his  heart  burned  with  the  nearness  of  home,  and 
his  blood  thrilled  at  the  touch  of  the  land  wind. 


Dash !  Dash  from  wave  to  onward  wave  I 
Eager  ship !  not  eager  as  my  heart  I 

Lift  freer !  bound  bolder !  while  the  brave 
Comrade  gales,  wilder,  fi'esher  start  I 

Heaving,  curling,  foaming  emerald  swells ! 
Take  twilight  thro'  each  jeweled  crest  I 


JEt.  22] 


EARLY  POEMS. 


67 


Shades  deepen  down  the  emerald  dells, 
Wild  winds  come  roaring  from  the  west 

Wild  winds !  not  wilder  than  my  hope  1 
W^hen  Hnmmit-poiHed,  I  see  the  shore 

Glimmer  far,  plunging  down  the  slope, 
Steep  surges  greet  me  with  their  roar. 

Wandering  soul !  who  knows  what  deeper  joy, 
What  deeper  sorrow  now  shall  test 

Thy  manlier  manhood  V    What  if  coy 

Love,  long  sought  love,  should  meet  thy  quest  V 

Tremble  not,  nor  stir  thy  steady  calm: 
Sad  heart,  be  still !  world  saddened  heart  I 

Nor  dare  to  lift  triumphant  psjilm — 

Thou  hast  not  learned  to  know  thy  part ! 

Grand  sea !  oh  sweep  me  homeward  fast  I 

Mine  is  a  land  of  surging  sweeps, 
Lone  forests,  prairies  rolling  vast. 

Palisades  of  fortress  mountain-steeps. 

Noble  land  to  stride  athwart,  and  wake 
All  its  myriads  up  to  nobler  thought; 

Dull  sleep  of  thousand  hearts  to  brake, 
Till  great  deliverance  is  wrought ! — (1851). 


NORTHERN  LIGHTS. 

Wild  soul  of  mine,  be  strong,  be  brave  1 
Vast  land  of  mine,  thy  opening  skies 
Where  omen  lights  dash  wave  on  wave, 

Crowd  night  with  hopes,  when  daylight  dies, 
Telling  me  my  wings  shall  yet  be  free, 
Nobler  far  their  soaring  yet  shall  be  I 


11 


ii% 


i 


wi 


GH 


HARLY    ro/'lMS. 


[1851 


Visions  truer  tliiiii  wliut  diivli^'lit  ji^ives, 

Pace  grandly  down  my  shadowy  dreams; 
Trailing  light  they  march,  a  glow  that  lives 
Brightening,  till  my  darkness  radiance  seems. 
Call  you  midnight  this?  methinks  proud  day 
Proudly  thus  his  noontide  might  array. 

Cold  brilliance  of  a  northern  sky, 

Rosier  than  tropic  sunset  glows; 
Spirit  pageants  bannered  gloriously 

Throng  heaven  with  triumph.     Ghostly  snows 
Wintry  piled  in  silver  swelling  mass 
Flush  with  golden  splendors  as  they  pass. 

Then  startling  voices  rouse  my  soul : 

Weird  whispers,  strangely  stirring,  breathe 
Through  mazy  flashes,  to  a  scroll 

Rune  written — dancers  twine  and  wreathe, 
Mortal  music  never  such  as  this 
Taught  sadness  certainty  of  bliss ! 

Certain  bliss,  vet  nobler  effort  still ! 

Grander  duties,  gemmed  with  finer  joys  I 
Prophet  glories  nerve  me  to  fulfil 
True  hope,  that  worthily  destroys 
All  the  long  ignoble  bitter  past; 
Merging  it  in  strength  ond  peace  at  last. 

—(1851.) 

DEFEAT  ? 

Forgotten  aspirations !     Faint 

Trembles  of  bygone  tumult,  heavings  stilled ! 
Prayers  when  I  deemed  myself  a  saint  I 

I^plifting  dreams !  thoughts  with  broad  visions  filled  I 


«  . 


851 


JEt.  22] 


EARLY   POEMS. 


69 


Forgotten !  as  the  ocean  has  forgot 

The  mastery  of  winds  that  raged  but  now, 

In  swaying  sunniest  calm,  that  carelessly 
Dashes  vyith  petty  shifting  smiles  its  brow. 

Oh  shoaling  heart !  oh  thin 

And  sandy,  scattered,  aimless  flowing  life ! 
Even  its  deeper  spots  have  been 

Fouled  darkly  by  a  secret  inward  strife. 

Once  to  have  heard  a  tone 

Diviner  than  a  dreamy  symphony, 
C'all,  thro'  the  silence  of  unknown 

Awe,  and  o  grand  expectancy, 

To  feel  a  silence  thronged  with  power 

Of  thoughts,  like  to  a  kneeling  legion  band, 

AV'hose  vows  are  war-cries  in  the  hour 
Of  death,  of  martyrdom  for  fatherland ; 

And  then  their  tramj),  their  throng 

Round  the  brave  soul  that,  marshaling  them  on, 
Sweeps  forward  with  an  impulse  strong 

Those  eager  souls,  till  life  or  death  is  won ! 

Oh  coward  heart !  defeat  ? — 

Better  have  died  than  fievl !     Better  have  died 
Than  falsely,  weakly  struggling,  deign  to  treat 

With  those  assassin  foes  you  march  beside ! 

Therefore  they  ceased,  my  grand 
Bursts  of  exalted,  of  inspiring  thought;— 

Hardly  a  straggler  dares  to  stand 

Hidden,  and  mourning  the  vain  fight  they  fought. 


i  Ibr 


70 


EARLY  POEMS. 


[1851 


Sadly  I  watch  the  dying  sunset  paint 
My  hopes  with  gray,  their  promise  unfulfilled, 

Nor  longer  catch  the  glory,  lingering  faint, 
Of  splendor  lost  to  him  who  feebly  willed. 


WAITING. 


So  I  may  only  live  thro'  my  despair, 
And  feel  the  grand  revulsion,  and  repair 
My  weary  night  watch  of  dull  misery, 
By  one  full  gaze  at  unveiled  ecstasy, 

So  I  may  know  the  terrible  delight. 
Intense  as  madness,  of  one  instant's  sight 
Into  the  heaven  of  passion,  when  like  flame 
Leap  the  quick  pulses  quivering  thro'  my  frame; 

For  such  illumined  moments  I  will  grope 

Through  gloomiest  ways,  bearing  my  half-quenched 

hope. 
Till  its  charred  ashes  suddenly  awake, 
And  wondrous  flashes  'thwart  the  darkness  break. 

Let  me  not  waste  in  skirmishes  my  power,  — 
In  petty  struggles, — rather  in  the  hour 
Of  deadly  conflict  may  I  nobly  die  ! 
In  my  first  battle  peiisli  gloriously ! 

No  level  Kfe  for  me,  no  soft  smooth  seas, 
No  tender  plaintive  notes  of  lulling  breeze : 
I  choose  the  night,  so  I  may  feel  the  gale. 
Even  though  it  wreck  me  on  my  foamy  trail. 


5] 


Ml.  22] 


EARLY  POEMS. 


71 


I  cannot  tamely,  coldly-patient'  live, 

And  all  my  glowing  fire  to  ashes  give  1 

Let  ruddy  light,  fierce,  ardent,  searching  flame 

Arouse  the  dying  pulses  of  my  frame. 


FRAGMENTS. 

'Tis  grander  to  have  merited  renown, 
Than  to  have  gained  it — 

If  strong  desire  could  conquer  fate,  I'd  conquer — 

'Tis  the  wild  battle,  'tis  the  crashing  charge ! 
The  shout  of  victory,  the  maddened  shout; 
The  ecstatic  agony  of  victor  death. — 
p        ,        •         •         •         •         •         •         •         • 

He  stood  as  a  lone  island  lighthouse  stands 
On  a  mad  midnight  sea 

It  was  the  cooling  of  his  religious  enthusiasm  that 
he  mourned  in  some  of  these  verses,  but  if  he  had  not 
so  high  an  ideal,  would  he  have  felt  such  self-contempt? 


'  1 
1 


CHAPTER  III. 


i»> 


'! 


! 


n     ( 


MANHOOD. 

AFTER  settling  down  at  home,  and  losing  the  first 
freshness  of  its  novelty,  discouragement  seemed 
again  to  close  upon  him.  He  saw  no  opening  in  life 
to  satisfy  his  hope  or  his  eager  ambition,  or  even  to 
make  his  living.  He  had  become  quite  intimate  in 
Europe  with  Mr.  W.  H.  Aspinwall,  who  took  an  in- 
terest in  him,  as  every  one  did  who  was  brought  into 
his  society,  and  felt  the  influence  of  his  sweet  temper, 
genial  manners,  and  original  mind.  He  visited  at  Mr. 
Aspinwall's  house  on  Staten  Island,  and  it  was  from 
thence  that  the  new  impulse  and  new  hope  was  to 
come. 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

^^April,  1851.  I  was  long  uncertain  as  to  what 
would  be  my  course  in  life,  and  almost  despaired 
again;  but  when  things  seemed  at  their  worst,  I 
received  Mr.  Aspinwall's  offer  and  hope  revived 
again.  On  the  first  of  April,  1851,  I  began  my 
new  life,  by  entering  the  office  of  the  Pacific  Mail 
Steamship  Company,  where  I  am  to  be  for  a  time. 
My  occupation  has  principally  been  copying  papers, 
and  I  suppose  it  will  be  some  time  before  I  am  fit 


f 


JEr.  22] 


77/E   STEAMSJIir  COMIWNY. 


73 


for  tiny  thing  else.  My  education  with  respect  to 
business  is,  1  think,  below  the  average.  Still,  if 
taking  pains  can  teach  me,  there  shall  be  no  lack. 
I  am  interested  already,  and  not  merely  in  feeling 
that  1  am  settled,  and  no  longer  idle,  but  in  the 
glimpses  1  get  of  the  management  of  the  most 
important  and  varied  affairs  of  the  concern.  My 
Spanish  studies  go  on  slowly.  Mr.  Aspinwall  com- 
mands more  and  more  my  admiration.  I  too  would 
be  clear  and  distinct  as  the  form  of  a  fossil  fish. 
Self-command!  attention!  energy! 

"  Men  die  for  three  reasons,  because  they  have 
not,  because  they  cannot,  because  they  will  not, 
achieve  their  destiny.  Blessed  are  the  good  au  I 
faithful  servants  who  are  numbered  in  the  first 
class.  Not  to  be  despised,  but  worthy  of  all  com- 
passion and  sympathy,  are  those  feebler  ones  whom 
Providence  withdraws  from  the  conflict,  because 
they  are  unequal  to  it.  But  cursed,  wretched  abovo 
measure  are  the  traitors,  who  seeing  clearly  and 
knv)\viiig  fully  what  they  might  be,  forget  their 
honor,  and  desert  their  standards,  fighting  against 
their  lord.  As  for  me,  I  would  be  in  the  first  clasK, 
but  finding  myself  in  the  third,  prefer,  even  with  a 
shock  to  my  pride,  to  be  ranked  in  the  second." 


To  his  mother  he  writes: — 


Neu»  Ywk,  April  14th,  1851. 

"  I  feel  that  I  cannot  let  another  day  pass  with- 
out a  word  from  me.  I  have  now  been  a  fortnight 
in  my  new  place,  and  ])egin  to  be  ac('U8touied  to  its 


w 


71 


STATEN  ISLAND 


[1851 


ways.     Thus  far,  my  employment  has  been  pretty 

mechanical 

"The  company  has  the  control  of  fourteen  or  fif- 
teen large  steamers  on  the  Pacific  side,  and  more  or 
less  to  do  witli  Law's  Company  on  the  Atlantic,  and 
both  parties  are  building  new  ones.  The  enormous 
receipts  that  marked  the  first  trips  of  our  steamers, 
amounting  more  than  once  to  a  clear  profit  of  sev- 
enty thousand  dollars  on  a  single  trip,  have  ceased, 
but  the  business  is  steady,  and  like  to  continue  so. 
In  the  office  we  have  a  pleasant  set.  I  have  only 
the  evening  to  myself,  and  I  should  of  course  like 
more  time  to  study,  but  I  am  quite  contented,  if  I 
were  only  perfectly  well." 

^* Aprils  1851.  Staten  Island  was  charming  to-day 
in  its  fresh  verdure.  Spring  is  a  season  one  hardly 
knows  how  to  fix;  it  comes  with  the  first  maple 
blossoms,  and  goes  away  with  the  last  violet,  soar- 
ing away  on  the  back  of  the  last  bluebird,  when  it 
hears  the  war  note  of  the  first  mosquito.  Shrink- 
ing back  from  the  first  cankerworm,  it  flies  in  ter- 
ror from  the  first  thunderstorm." 


'^ 


f! 


Winthrop  remained  during  the  summer  in  the  Steam- 
ship Company's  office,  and  was  also  requested  by  Mr. 
Aspinwall,  who  was  sincerely  desirous  to  befriend  him, 
to  take  some  supervision  of  the  studies  of  his  son.  He 
did  so,  and  a  proposal  followed  from  Mr.  Aspinwall 
that  Winthrop  should  go  to  Switzerland  with  his  son 
and  nephew,  and  place  them  in  a  school  of  his  own  se- 
lection, still  retaining  his  situation  in  the  office. 


Mr.  22] 


A    TALE    OF  KliVENGE. 


75 


*'S.  will  liave  told  you  of  our  Jenny  Lind  con- 
cert together;  to  me  it  was  a  great  enjoyment,  mal- 
ifve  the  loss  of  my  pocket  handkerchiei'  (ragged)  in 
the  crowd.     She  is  great ! 

"" Staten  Maud.  At  Mr.  Aspinwall's.  The  situa- 
tion of  this  place  is  admirable,  a  constant  source  of 
new  delight,  and  the  frequent  passing  of  ocean 
steamers  and  fine  ships  seems  to  bring  one  into 
contact  with  the  whole  wide  world.  1  feel  much 
better  in  health.  I  had  a  long  walk  on  the  beach 
last  night,  with  a  fine  surf  coming  up  from  sea- 
ward, and  roaring  on  the  shore.  1  wander  about 
the  woods,  and  see  the  sunset  from  the  telegraph 
station,  and  sometimes  feel  ahnost  as  if  happiness 
were  possible.  The  weather  here  has  been  lovely, 
and  the  moon  exquisite 

"  Mr.  ,  who  has  just  returned  from   Cubn, 

told  me  the  following  story,  worthy  a  place  in  the 
annals  of  Kevenge.  A  certain  Pedro  Gomez,  one 
of  the  richest  proprietors  on  the  island  of  Cuba, 
had  injured  most  deeply  one  of  his  countrymen. 
The  latter  determined  upon  revenge,  and  followed 
Gomez  one  day  into  the  Cathedral,  where  there 
were  but  a  few  persons  present,  and  while  he  was 
on  his  knees,  came  up  behind  him,  and  poured 
a  large  bottle  of  vitriol  on  his  head  and  person. 
While  his  victim  was  writhing  in  agony  at  his  feet, 
and  before  the  persons  attracted  by  the  screams 
could  secure  the  fiend,  he  said  to  Gomez — '  Now  I 
am  content!  I  have  looked  upon  your  tortures, 
and  this  instant  repays  me  for  all  you  have  made 


t 


W 

I 

I 


' 


la 


(    i 


lil 


tl 


76 


SJA'^i  7VGA. 


[1851 


me  suifer;  but  my  revenge  does  not  end  here — you 
will  not  die,  but  linger  through  a  life  worse  tlian 
death,  deprived  even  of  the  pleasure  of  my  pun- 
ishment. I  escape  you,  and  perish  with  the  cer- 
tainty, the  ecstasy  of  your  misery.'  As  he  said 
this,  he  swallowed  a  powerful  poison,  and  fell  dead 
on  the  spot.  Gomez  survived,  and  is  still  living, 
a  total  wreck,  and  completely  blind.  This  story 
had  a  great  power  over  me.  It  is  of  the  intense 
and  dramatic  kind  that  I  love." 

A  short  vacation  took  him  to  visit  his  brother  at 
Owego,  to  Niagara,  Trenton,  Saratoga,  etc. 

Letter  from  Saratoga. 

"Aug.,  1851. 

"  The  gyrations  of  my  route  have  led  me  hither- 
ward,  and  I  am  to-day  making  my  first  acquaint- 
ance with  an  American  watering  place.  It  speaks 
volumes  in  praise  of  that  '  best  thing,  Water,'  that 
it  should  enter  of  necessity  into  all  the  ideas  of 
pleasure  and  pleasant  places,  whether  as  lake, 
ocean,  cataract,  broad  river,  mountain  brook,  or 
clear  spring.  In  all,  water,  the  prime  object  of 
admiration,  proves  itself  the  chief  element.  Water 
is  spiritualized  earth  and  air,  and  partakes  of  the 
merits  of  both.  I  have  lately  been  attracted  by 
water  to  Niagara  and  Trenton.  I  found  myself  at 
the  former  place,  very  dirty,  and  without  my  port- 
manteau, which  the  Express  had  not  delivered. 
When  Sunday  morning  came  I  was  in  a  quandary. 
I  could  visit  the  falls  without  a  clean  shirt,  but 
then  there  was  the  great  fact  of  dinner,  there  was 


II 


iET.  22] 


NIAGARA. 


w 


clniroh,  tliere  was  the  uncomtbrtable  senRe  of  bein^ 
out  ot*  uniform,  and  wanting  tlie  white  breastplate 
of  a  gentleman,  which  would  exclude  me  from  the 
society  of  my  peers.  While  I  was  going  upstairs, 
I  saw  flitting  across  the  distance  the  form  of  a 
young  lady  whom  I  know,  and  whose  mother  1 
also  know.  Though  neither  the  lady  nor  her  mothei 
could  supply  my  wants,  a  ray  of  hope  entered  my 
breast;  she  must  have  a  protector,  father,  brother, 
lover,  somebody.  Father  it  proved  to  be,  and  beg- 
ging an  interview  with  him  in  the  name  of  his 
daughter  and  v/ife,  I  unbosomed  myself.  lie  in- 
stantly bosomed  me,  and,  with  great  kindness,  of- 
fered me  everything  else.  It  wiis  a  most  romantic 
use  for  the  father  of  a  charmer,  and  when  I  pre- 
sented myself  to  the  ladies  with  the  interior  drapery 
of  a  man  six  feet  by  four,  gracefully  disposed  about 
my  person,  I  thought  I  detected  a  smile  of  admira- 
tion, i  became  their  Esquire  during  my  visit,  and 
had  two  delightful  afternoon  strolls.  I  am  rejoiced 
that  I  did  not  see  Niagara  until  capable  of  swal- 
lowing it  whole.  I  was  delighted  with  Trenton. 
Particulars  in  my  next." 

*'  The  day  I  left  you  is  marked  with  white  in  my 
calendar,  for  I  met  Dwight  Foster  at  the  station 
and  had  a  delightful  journey  with  him,  and  we  re- 
viewed the  time  since  our  separation.  Our  lives 
had  been  widely  dilferent,  and  interesting  to  each 
other.     He  is  most  congenial.     A  noble  fellow  ! 

"The  views  from  the  Staten  Island  hills  are 
superb,  from  Toad  Hill  at  sunset,  and  still  more  from 


^i 


]\\  " 


j     i 

i       i 

■ 

( 

H           '       ' 

i        |l 

1 

\                              1 

! 

STATEN  ISLAXn  HILLS. 


[1851 


Grymes  hill  above  the  Quarantine.  Here  you  look 
npon  the  bay,  the  city,  and  the  sea.  The  bay  is 
like  a  great  lake,  and  the  stretch  of  water  from  the 
Quarantine  to  Sandy  Hook  seems  like  a  broad  river. 
To-night,  as  the  great  orb  of  the  sun  was  dipping 
below  the  horizon,  the  blue  hills  drew  a  sharp  line 
against  the  clear  sky;  heavy  masses  of  cloud  above 
were  penetrated  with  light,  and  the  broken  edges 
shone  like  foam  caps  on  sea  waves. 

"From  the  top  of  the  Fort  the  view  is  even 
grander,  if  less  picturesque — more  ocean  and  less 
land.  The  shores  come  sweeping  round  and  lock- 
ing together  finely.  It  is  one  of  the  great  views 
of  the  world  " 

The  following  poems  date  about  this  time,  and  from 
the  South  Beach  of  Stateu  Island,  a  haunt  of  his. 

ON  THE  BEACH. 

Oh  let  me  look  upon  that  dreamy  sea  I 

A  wild  love-longing  for  its  mystery 

Has  mastered,  ever  thrills  and  masters  me. 

My  soul  sweejis  onward  to  the  infinite, 

Trembling  along  the  delicate  delight 

Of  waves  that  brighten  onward  still,  and  run 

To  fade  in  mist  that  is  all  skv  and  sun. 

Oh  let  me  gaze  upon  that  dreamy  sea ! 

It  sends  such  quivering  looks;  so  smilingly 

Answers  my  smile,  that  its  broad  majesty 

But  deepens  joy; — else  it  might  break,  and  waste 

In  gay  and  dimpled  laughter,  that  has  (phased 


s 


> 


Mt.  22] 


POEMS. 


79 


Awav  the  nobleness  of  silence.     Now 
These  smile  crests  fitly  gem  this  royal  brow. 

Oh  let  me  look  upon  that  dreamy  sea ! 

Life  has  not  crushed  and  dwarfed  me  utterly, 

All  furled  and  drooping'  thougli  my  sails  may  be. 

Let  the  pjrcat  winds  but  strike  them,  they  will  bear 

Much  baflHing  yet,  so  but  the  pilot  dare 

To  plunge  down  twilight — drift  through  larkness  on, 

Till  some  vast  summit  wave  is  red  with  dawn. 

* 

Oh  let  me  dream  beside  this  dreamy  sea ! 
Ever  and  ever  falling  soothingly, 
Ripples  are  pleading  with  their  melody; 
The  massy  breakers  east  their  might  away, 
And  fringing  sea-weeds  ilicker  in  the  sway 
Of  wavering  waters,  as  a  maiden's  hair 
Is  caught  and  lifted  by  the  summer  air. 

Then  voices  in  the  surges  speak  to  me 
Of  struggle,  and  endurance,  and  a  free 
Dash  at  the  fates  that  front  us  terribly. 
For  we  are  flung  on  life  as  on  a  surge, 
Heaved  along  unknown  currents  till  we  merge 
Our  being  into  vastness — then  we  cease, — 
Yielding  and  borne  down  steadier  tides  of  peace, 

IPnt  peacf  of  grander  action.     Dreamily 
T^n  let  me  look  beyond  this  dreamy  sea! 
Our  drejnns  but  shadow  what  our  lives  may  be: 
Hopes  are  more  real  than  what  hopes  achieve. 
A  vision  nobler  thai!  we  dare  believe 
Sudden  will  burst  on  us,  of  glorious  lands, 
And  broad,  bright  oceans,  foaming  on  their  strands. 

—(1851.) 


i 

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♦  I 

I 


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m 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


I.I 


tii  12.8 

■iO     "^ 

^  m 

^    tiS.    12.0 


2.2 


11.25  III  1.4 


1.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WiST  K'JkIN  STRiET 

Ive^STIR.K.Y.  US80 

(716)873-4503 


■<(s 


lil 


*     !i 


li: 


i:      I 


K     i 


80 


DOUBT. 


DOUBT. 


[1851 


Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  soul's  aspiring, 
This  crushing  doubt,  this  blank  dismay? 

And  must  they  shrink  and  droop  my  long,  untiring 
Struggles,  to  upward  mount,  at  last,  to  day  ? 

Speak !  ye  pretended  jDrophets  I  answer  me ! 

If  ye  indeed  the  eternal  radiance  see  ? 

Oh !  ye  have  cheated  all  our  eager  longing. 
And  we,  deceived,  have  trusted  you ! 

We  came,  like  pilgrims  to  a  temple  thronging. 
To  find  our  Goddess  sullied  and  untrue. 

Your  torches  glimmer  with  no  holy  gleams, 

Bitterly  flow  your  promised  healing  streams. 

•  •••••••  • 

''Seft  22d,  1851.  My  birthday,  and  on  the 
■whole  an  encouraging  one.  I  have  now  some 
hope  for  my  health,  though  it  can  never  be  strong; 
and  for  my  future.  I  am  twenty-three.  Though 
I  have  failed  in  attaining  my  ideal,  I  have  not 
altogether  lost  sight  of  it,  and  even  this  is  better 
than  the  entire  desertion  of  noble  aims,  which  is 
all  some  persons  attain  to.  Others  seem  to  value 
me  more  highly  than  I  do  myself,  and  Mr.  Aspin- 
wall's  confidence  in  the  matter  of  his  son's  training 
I  esteem  a  great  thing.  I  shall  go  abroad  with 
the  hope  of  good  success." 

"yS'ep^.  27th,  1851.  Saturday  was  a  fine  day,  and 
we  got  oiF  most  successfully  in  the  Pacific.  The 
afternoon  w^as  pleasant,  and  the  sea  calm.  Then 
came  sea-sickness,  which  lasted  more  or  less  till 
the  voyage  was  over,  though  I  kept  about." 


U  ^^ 


^T.  23] 


EUROPE  AGAIN. 


81 


^^  Wednesday,  Oct.  8th,  1851.  London.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  the  English  railroads  are  better  than 
ours,  but  they  are  also  more  expensive.  Autumn 
is  fairly  begun,  and  a  rich  warm  hue  is  over  every- 
thing. The  country  cannot  but  be  beautiful  every- 
where in  England  from  its  wonderful  verdure." 

^^ Thursday y  Oct  9th.  Went  with  oarly  ticket  to 
the  Great  Exhibition,  and  had  nearly  an  hour  before 
the  people  thronged  in.  Staid  till  two — started 
for  Paris  in  the  8.30  p.  m.  train." 

^^Saturday,  Oct.  11th,  1851.  Paris.  Dinner  with 
the  Hunts.  Always  pleasant  and  homelike  with 
them." 

''Oct.  12th,  1851.  Diligence  started  at  9  a.  m. 
The  day  was  perfect,  the  course  of  the  road  love- 
ly. The  night  ride  very  agreeable.  About  3  a.  m. 
we  began  to  ascend  the  mountains,  and  1  had 
a  beautiful  walk  of  nearly  an  hour,  by  full  moon- 
light, between  lofty  broken  hills — very  grand,  but 
the  dawn  and  the  sunrise  still  more  fine.  Noth- 
ing could  be  lovelier  than  the  morning;  we  were 
above  the  mists  of  the  valley,  which  hung  in  broad 
river  courses,  or  lake-like  expanses,  gradually  lift- 
ing and  revealing  the  soft  fair  country,  the  many- 
colored  richness  of  the  vine-clad  hills.  Some  of 
the  vines  a  dark  winy  purple — the  people  rejoicing 
in  the  vintage.  When  we  were  fairly  in  the  Jura, 
a  grand  wall  rose  before  us  all  clad  with  glowing 
leafage,  varied  with  dark  pines  and  white  limestone 
cliffs  seen  through.  The  Jura  lacks  the  majesty 
of  the  higher  Alps;  no  snowy  mountains,  no  awful 


M 


82 


THE    JURA. 


[1851 


I 


solitudes.  But  in  place  of  these,  soft  sloping  de- 
scents, wooded  mountain  sides,  crags,  and  steep 
ravines,  not  too  mighty  for  the  picturesque.  About 
ten  o'clock  this  morning  we  came  in  sight  of  the 
snowy  Alps,  through  a  gap  in  the  mountains,  and 
continued  to  descend  with  the  chain  full  in  view, 
for  two  hours  down  a  zigzag  road,  admirably  con- 
structed. I  was  amused  to  see  that  the  Swiss,  to 
be  superior  to  the  French,  had  planted  trees  along 
the  roadside,  as  soon  as  their  territory  began,  and 
that  the  stone  posts  were  better  and  more  frequent. 
I  have  been  told,  that  formerly  in  Switzerland,  when 
a  man  married,  he  planted  a  tree  by  the  roadside. 
I  climbed  upon  the  top  of  the  diligence,  unmindful 
of  the  grumbling  of  the  conductor,  and  took  my 
fill  of  the  scene.  The  sun  of  broad  day  brought 
into  full  relief  the  snowy  summits  of  the  loftier 
peaks,  while  the  darker  mountains  below  carried 
the  eye  up  to  their  glittering  field,  sparkling 
against  tlie  living  blue  of  the  sky.  A  faint  veil 
of  mist  still  hid  the  lake,  which  dispersed  as  we 
descended,  and  we  reached  at  last  its  banks  be- 
tween the  vine-clad  slopes  which  lined  the  road. 
Nothing  could  be  richer,  more  gay  and  smiling, 
than  this  autumn  scene.  We  arrived  in  Geneva 
about  two,  and  found  the  town  as  lovely  as  ever, 
and  the  sunset  glorious.  The  Jura  became  a  broad 
mass  of  the  softest,  most  exquisite  blue,  outlined 
against  the  clear  sky,  to  call  whose  soft  brilliancy 
golden,  would  be  defamation  worthy  of  the  debased 
imagination  of  some  California  Midas.'' 


^T.  23] 


GENEVA. 


83 


'-^Od.  14th,  1851.  I  must  make  short  work  of 
these  days.  Occupied  pretty  much  all  day  in  my 
search  for  a  school,  and  feeling  the  great  difficulties 
of  a  proper  choice.  Saw  Merle  D'Aubigne,  a  man 
of  fine  appearance,  decidedly  national", 

''Tuesday,  Oct.  21st.  Went  to  Nijou.  Refusal  of 
Rosin — uncertainty  and  distress  of  mind.  If  this 
question  were  of  my  own  interests,  I  could  bear 
better  the  thought  of  failure.  There  was  a  large 
party  of  English  (continentalized)  on  board,  among 
them  a  fine  daring  girl  of  sixteen.  They  were  evi- 
dently determined  to  be  amused,  and  were  quite 
noisy,  running  here  and  there  with  spyglass  in 
hand,  calling  each  other's  attention  in  a  way  that 
English  or  Americans  would  have  called  horridly 
vulgar  in  Continental  or  American  people,  but 
which  I  only  considered  pleasant,  especially  when 
there  were  so  few  on  board.  Returning  from  Nijou, 
I  spent  some  time  iu  balancing  the  advantages  of 
the  different  schools,  Rosin  having  again  refused. 

"Talked  with  Collyer  on  religious  subjects.  He 
thought  it  made  very  little  difference  about  a  man's 
religious  profession,  provided  he  was  true  and  just 
in  his  dealings,  and  he  had  found  Quakers  uniform- 
ly so.  We  have  churches,  because  there  is  no  true 
religion.  What  we  have  is  so  apart  from  our  daily 
life  that  we  take  it  up  at  the  door  of  a  church, 
and  lay  it  down  on  coming  out. 

"  I  went  to  the  Cathedral  and  saw  them  vote — 
quietly  enough.  If  things  were  as  they  should  b  , 
voting  on  Sunday  and  in  church  would  not  seem 


Ul 


ti 


y    11 


u 


84 


jy/fi"    VINTAGE. 


[1851 


wrong.     As  to  European  politics  at  this  moment, 
we  can  only  wait  to  see  what  will  come  next." 

"Geneva,  Nov.  3d,  1851. 

"  Dear  Mother, — Already  I  have  been  a  month 
away  from  home,  but  so  rapid  have  been  my  mo- 
tions that  it  seems  very  brief.  I  have  all  the  time 
occupied  myself  with  the  object  of  my  journey; 
arranging  matters  with  one  schoolmaster  after  an- 
other, only  to  find  that  his  final  judgment  was 
against  taking  Yankee  boys  of  that  age;  then 
beginning  with  another,  and  with  no  better  resnlt. 
This  has  been  very  amazing  to  me,  and  I  shall  at 
last  be  obliged  to  content  myself  with  a  place  that 
is  good,  but  not  the  one  I  should  have  chosen,  had 
choice  been  untrammeled.  I  hope  soon  to  arrange 
matters  so  as  to  come  away,  for  I  do  not  find  this 
shifting  kind  of  life  very  agreeable.  The  air  here 
is  mild  and  warm,  and  when  the  sun  is  out  you 
enjoy  basking.  The  trees  and  vines  still  rich  in 
coloring,  and  the  grass  green  and  fresh  as  spring. 

"The  vintage  is  nearly  over — there  is  a  kind 
of  tipsy  odor  everywhere,  and  stacks  of  squeezed 
grapes  along  the  road-sides.  The  first  punches 
are  given  to  the  grapes  by  a  flat  wooden  piston, 
which  brings  out  the  more  delicate  juice;  this 
makes  the  finer  wine,  and  then  it  is  put  into  a 
press  and  the  rest  is  squeezed  out.  1  tasted  both 
kinds  of  must,  and  the  difference  was  like  that 
between  your  best  Madeira  and  a  hotel's  best.  I 
hope  to  see  you  in  three  weeks  or  so.     My  present 


JEr.  23] 


JOURl^fAL. 


85 


journey  has  not  been  prolific  in  adventures.  I 
have  spent  my  time  quietly  here,  reading  a  little, 
and  swinging  about  when  I  had  no  schools  to  visit. 
We  have  pleasant  people  at  the  hotel,  and  dinner 
is  always  an  agreeable  reunion.     Love  to  all. 

»T.  W." 

Fragrruints  from  Journal. 
**  I  well  remember  when  I  first  resolved  to  be- 
come an  author.  I  had  just  recovered  from  a 
severe  fit  of  sea-sickness,  and  was  being  coddled 
at  a  friend's  house — oatmeal  gruel  with  raisins  was 
before  me.  I  was  free  from  all  care,  and  separated 
from  the  old  by  the  great  gulf  of  the  ocean.  I  was 
comfortable,  as  an  irresponsible  convalescent.  I 
remember  when  I  first  thought  of  writing  a  book, 
but  do  I  remember  why?  If  I  had  the  results  of 
a  long  life  of  experience  to  impart,  it  might  be 
my  duty.  But  I  am  only  a  fledgeling.  I  can 
have  no  experience.  But  there  are  other  motives, 
money,  fame,  the  trophies  of  Miltiades.  Who  can 
thoroughly  know  his  motives  V  " 

"  A  man  may  have  been  falling  a  long  time,  but 
he  first  knows  it  when  he  strikes  upon  the  ground." 

"  I  never  shall  forget  the  change  which  came 
over  my  childish  dream,  when  I  went  to  the  Mu- 
seum with  my  cousin,  and  he,  the  younger  by  a 
month  and  the  taller  by  a  foot,  went  in  like  a  man, 
while  I  was  considered  under  his  protection,  and 
admitted  for  half  price." 

Returning  to  America,  he  writes  to  his  mother: — 


y\^ 


W-- 


m, 


86 


RETURN  HOME. 


[1851 


!       i 


\    W 


\ 


December  9th,  1881. 

"Dear  Mother, — On  my  arrival,  after  a  long 
sea-sickness  followed  by  a  swelled  face  and  one  or 
two  feverish  nights,  I  felt  so  ill  as  to  be  rejoiced 
to  accept  Mr.  Aspin wall's  kind  invitation  to  be 
nursed  at  his  house.  I  hope  in  a  few  days  to  be 
out  again.  I  should  have  gone  to  New  Haven  if 
I  had  felt  able,  but  shall  now  wait  to  see  you  till 
we  all  meet  at  Christmas.  My  journey  has  been 
on  the  whole  not  disagreeable,  yet  I  cannot  call 
it  a  pleasant  one,  and  the  ocean  passages  were  not 
unpleasant,  though  1  suffered  a  good  deal  from 
sickness.  My  stay  in  Geneva  I  enjoyed,  except 
the  great  responsibility  that  I  felt,  from  the  in- 
dependence and  expectations  of  indulgence  of  the 
boys,  which  made  me  appreciate  better  the  influ- 
ences of  my  own  home  education.  I  liked  both 
boys,  and  sympathized  with  them.  1  had  a  frozen 
journey  from  Geneva  to  Paris,  where  I  spent  several 
days  with  the  Hunts — enjoying  them,  as  I  always 
do,  pleasantly  also  seeing  the  Woolseys.  I  had 
only  part  of  a  day  in  London.  Found  pleasant 
people  on  board  the  Pacific.  The  family  here  are 
all  exceedingly  kind,  and  I  am  afraid  that  all  this 
clover  will  spoil  me  for  a  humble  diet  in  some 
cheap  boarding  house,  which  I  shall  have  to  look 
up,  as  soon  as  I  go  out.  My  life  for  the  past  two 
years  has  cultivated  my  taste  for  comfort  rather 
beyond  my  means  to  gratify  it. 

"  Yours  with  much  love, 

"T.    WiNTHROP." 


JEr.  23] 


rOEMS. 


87 


It  is  difficult  to  fix  the  dates  of  all  the  poems,  but 
the  following  appear  to  have  been  written  about  this 
time. 


NAPOLEON  AT  ST.   HELENA. 

Aye,  smile,  ye  bubbling  lipples  at  my  fate, 
And  waste  your  i^etty  sneers  along  the  shore ! 

He  whom  you  fettered  hold  was  strong  and  great. 
Till  the  awed  world  could  bear  his  might  no  more. 

Power  vast  and  terrible  alone  I  swayed, 
Princes  and  monarchs  were  to  me  but  men, 

I  crushed  or  used  them,  while  their  clans  obeyed 
The  man  whom  destiny  had  called  to  reign. 

My  will  was  empire;  man  would  faint  and  fail 
Without  some  force  heroic,  to  support 

His  insufficiency.     The  world  grew  pale. 

Then  yielded  to  the  man  who  shrunk  from  naught. 

I  was  the  master.     As  my  circle  spread. 
And  thousand  thousands  drew  within  my  sphere. 

By  some  magnetic  power  all  souls  were  led, 
An  adamantine  influence  held  them  there. 

T  moved  them  by  their  weakness  and  their  strength, 
I  led  them  by  their  glory  and  their  shame. 

Woke  hopes,  and  played  on  passions,  till  at  length 
This  best  exponent  I  to  each  became. 

Brave  was  he  ?    I  was  braver !     In  the  field 
Of  bloodiest  carnage,  when  the  battle  din 

Roared  loudest;  ranks  in  glittering  cuirass  steeled 
Shrank  from  the  man  whose  armor  was  within. 


« 


'     llM 


ii 


88 


POEMS. 


[1851 


Wise  was  he  ?    I  was  wiser !     In  my  voice 
Senate's  conviction  and  intention  spoke; 

With  me  was  no  uncertainty  of  choice, 
No  feeble  echoes  from  my  soul  awoke. — 


KATHAEINE  TERESA. 


^ 


i 


m ' 


A  FRAGMENT. 

And  this  they  call  to  be  a  queen;  to  rule  I 
Am  I  a  meek  thing  to  be  ever  schooled 
To  duncehood  ?    Are  these  trammels,  law  ? 
These  bonds  of  nobleness '?    No !    Faugh ! 
I  trample  them !     I  am  a  queen ! 
Why  throned,  if  stolidness  can  screen 
What  I  am  raised  a  step  to  see, 
If  selfishness  can  darken  me  ? 
Wise  counsels  from  my  father's  friend  ? 
Yes,  feebly  wise  !  would  I  could  strip 
That  smile,  half  sneer,  from  his  gray  lip  I 
When  my  blood  kindles  to  a  flush, 
When  great  thoughts  stii-  me  like  a  rush 
Of  mighty  winds  on  seas  that  sleep, 
And  my  soul  leaps  as  surges  leap; 
He  dallies  all  my  passion  back ! — 
Is  prudence  all  ?    No  melody  of  hope 
To  catch  the  errant  music  of  each  breeze  ? 
Nothing  intenser  than  the  silken  slack 
Clue  of  my  babyrinth  of  ease  ? 
Better  his  path  who  darkly  gropes 
In  the  dread  of  caverns,  till  light  opes 


Ml.  23] 


POEMS. 


89 


Sudden  beyond.     Let  me  be  free 
For  soaring,  not  for  fluttering  glee  I 
Upward  I  must ! 

Oh  for  one  soull 
One  single  soul  of  truth  and  trust  I 
The  woman  in  me  is  not  Htrong  to  thrust 
And  trample  their  false  duties  down  to  dust. 
Gladly,  oh  God !  would  I  enroll 
My  queenhood  in  their  ranks  who  stand 
Beckoning  the  world  with  guiding  hand, 
Upward,  and  onward !     Oh !  I  cannot  die 
And  have  done  nothing,  nothing  gloriously ! 

Deeds  wait  who  dares  in  the  wide  world ! 

I  know  not  what  I  dare  not;  for  the  deed 

There  lies  a  woman's  power,  but  for  the  plan, 

On  large  thought  based,  and  cautious  head, 

The  scheme  to  meet  a  giant  nation's  need, 

This  asks  the  wider  wisdom  of  a  man. 

Oh,  solitude  of  high  desire ! 

Such  find  I  none.     Grant  me  young  death. 

Ye  fates !  if  passionate  desire 

For  hero  Hfe  must  utterly  expire 

With  youth.     Just  now  my  eager  breath 

Was  voiceless  to  my  faster  beating  heart, 

Ardently  scheming  to  my  counselor, 

Of  freer  life,  in  palace  and  in  mart, 

In  field  and  forest.     To  the  core 

Of  our  great  land  a  light  should  stride 

And  tame  my  people  out  of  ignorance ! 

My  people  ?    God's !  by  me  whom  chance 

Made  queen,  not  slave.     But  he  replied. 

Smiling,  and  fondling  stars  upon  his  breast, 


ail 


1 


90 


POEMS. 


[1851 


Sneering  the  people  down, — "  'Twere  best 
My  pirlish  dreams  were  o'er,  if  this 
FoDy  they  taught  and  dreaminess. 
He  had  known  life,  and  men,  and  null 
Was  fancied  freedom  for  the  mean  of  men. 
To  form  us  Kings  and  Princes,  fate  did  cull 
Her  best,  her  bravest,  her  most  beautiful. 
Others  were  fitly  slaves  and  wisely  dull 
For  our  more  glowing  radiance — " .... 

Crush  not,  oh  God,  my  earnest  soul ! 
Oh  firmly  true,  might  I  enroll 
My  queenhood  in  tneir  ranks  who  stand, 
Beckoning  the  world  with  guiding  hand 
Onward  and  upward !     Oh  I  will  not  die, 
Nor  have  done  aught  to  yield  life  worthily ! 
Die !  death  ?    No,  I  must  live,  for  I  can  find 
No  charm  in  lonely  heaven !    But  my  mind 
Touched  with  strong  passion,  throbs  too  fast 
For  thought.     Forth  I  must  ride,  and  freely  cast 
My  troubles  to  the  freedom  of  the  winds. 

Ho !  friend ! 
I  will  not  call  thee  slave !  attend ! 
Tell  them  to  bring  me  a  horse  I — 
One  that  can  gallop  I — 


I 


.  '%■ 


FRAGMENT. 

Lift,  Father  Ocean !  lift  another  sail. 

One  far  white  sail  o'er  yonder  lucent  rim ! 

Ah  me !  these  faint  and  fainter  hopes  will  fail. 
Die  with  this  dying  day,  this  twilight  dim. 


I 


I 


Er.  23] 


POEMS. 


1)1 


Oh,  Father  Ocean !  listen  to  my  Honpf ! 

Are  there  no  voyagern  who  climb  thy  waves  V 
No  more  who  steer  thy  pfolden  coasts  along  ? 

Not  one  heroic  bark  the  tempest  braves  ? 

And  that  dear  destined  sailor  that  I  wait 
So  long,  alas!  these  cold  ignoble  years; 

That  only  loyal  lover !     Ah,  too  late ! 
He  stays  unknown,  and  all  my  life  is  tears. 


y 


ii 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  TEOPICS. 


¥INTHROP  remained  in  the  employment  of  the 
Pacific  Mail  Steamship  Company,  living  some- 
times in  New  Yoiik  and  sometimes  on  Staten  Island, 
until  he  was  sent,  during  the  following  summer,  by 
the  Company,  to  their  station  at  Panama. 


1^ 


I 


"August  25th,  1852. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  have  just  received  your  note, 
and  shall  go  to  New  Haven  on  Saturday  afternoon. 
I  have  only  a  moment  just  now  to  be  with  yon,  as 
I  have  some  preparations  to  make.  In  many  re- 
spects the  plan  is  a  good  one.  The  climate  of 
Panama  is  not  dangerous,  if  proper  care  is  taken, 
and  no  serious  illness  of  an  employee  has  occurred. 
I  shall  have  plenty  to  do,  and  a  good  salary.  I 
shall  be,  for  the  present,  cashier  and  ticket  clerk  in 
the  Company's  office,  and  anything  that  may  turn 
up  later  will  be  for  my  advantage.  Panama  offers 
just  now  things  apart  from  my  employ,  of  which 
I  will  talk  further  when  we  meet.  I  go  on  the 
first  September. 

"  Yours  always, 

"T.  W." 


*l 


|i 


|i 


11 


^T.  23] 


ASPINWALL. 


"  Aspinwall,  Sept.  9th. 

"Dear  Mother, — Terra  firma,  even  the  terra 
firina  of  a  coral  reef  and  railroad  embankment,  Ir 
delightful,  when  one  has  been  tosHed  on  a  fihip 
crowded  with  emigrants.  Life  turns  ont  rather 
queer.  I  never  expected  to  squabble  for  the  meals 
of  a  sea-sick  man,  with  Jews  and  Barbarians,  and 
find  my  best  society  with  Nantucket  whalers  and 
express  agents.  We  had  very  fine  weather  down, 
though  increasingly  hot,  until  now  the  movement 
of  my  pen  over  the  paper  is  sudorific,  and  my  vain 
efforts  to  slaughter  mosquitoes,  the  defenders  of 
their  country,  gives  me  a  vapor  bath.  The  United 
Slates  is  a  fast  but  small  steamer,  and  as  there 
were  two  hundred  on  board,  the  crowd  was  trouble- 
some, and  compounded  of  vile  elements  mostly.  I 
was  sea-sick  too,  and  but  for  the  kindness  of  the 
Captain  and  one  or  two  others,  should  have  been 
desperate — but  I  will  not  dwell  upon  this. 

"  This  place  is  hardly  raised  above  the  water,  but 
there  are  fine  wharves,  a  beacon,  hotel,  houses, 
etc.  I  go  on  to-morrow  to  Panama,  and  will  write 
at  once." 


y 


Extracts  from  a  letter  of  sixteen  pages. 

"Panama,  Sept.  12th,  1852. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  wrote  you  hastily  from  Aspin- 
wall,  and  you  will  probably  receive  this  at  the  same 
time.  It  seemed  strange  to  be  greeted  there  by 
the  whistle  of  an  engine,  issuing  from  a  tropic  for- 
est, and  still  more  to  be  hurrying  through  a  swamp 


1 


IV 


I'i 


94 


T//£   ISTHMUS. 


[1852 


of  broad-leaved  plants,  such  as  we  have  only  seen 
before  in  a  conservatory.  The  road  for  some  dis- 
tance passes  through  a  festering  swamp,  and  the 
air  is  heavy.  It  is  entirely  built  upon  piles,  but 
tliey  are  packing  it  rapidly  with  red  clay,  which 
bakes  like  brick.  This  swamp  is  most  desolate, 
and  like  a  rich  garden,  abandoned  to  weeds.  Some- 
times a  glade  would  open,  among  large  trees,  the 
finest  I  have  ever  seen,  with  glittering  leaves. 
The  plumes  of  the  cocoa  palm,  wild  banana,  and 
plantain,  were  the  tropical  elements  of  the  scene. 
Numberless  creepers,  like  squashes  and  melons, 
covered  broad  spots,  and  cypress  vines  and  splen- 
did purple  morning-glories  twice  the  size  of  ours. 
Where  there  was  a  cutting,  they  draped  the  banks 
with  festoons. 

"To  the  Chagres  river,  the  present  terminus,  our 
crowded  train,  was  one  and  three-quarter  hours. 
Tlie  crossing  is  at  a  beautiful  spot — the  banks  are 
high  and  bare,  with  deeply  wooded  hills  behind, 
and  on  both  sides  of  the  river  a  broad  meadow  with 
park  like  trees,  cattle  feeding,  and  a  native  village. 
The  natives  are  far  better  looking  than  I  expected, 
and  bear  the  climate  better  than  our  imported  la- 
borers. The  boatmen  on  the  Chagres  are  powerful 
and  active.  They  wear  their  hair  in  long  black 
braids,  and  their  dresses  are  of  loose  hanging  folds 
of  muslin.  Eight  of  us  filled  a  small  boat,  and  we 
were  off"  for  Chagres,  up  the  chocolate-colored 
stream,  about  half-past  twelve.  Our  progress  was 
slow,  but  in  the  novelty  of  everything  you  might 


^T.  23] 


TROPICAL    SCENES. 


wish  it  slower.  The  river  winds  and  doubles,  so 
that  a  fine  view-point  is  always  before  you.  Now 
a  low  bank,  with  marshy  growth,  then  a  conical 
hill,  hidden  in  deep  dark  forests,  then  feathery 
palms  and  bamboos,  then  a  village  with  its  plan- 
tations. The  river  is  most  beautiful^  lonely  and 
grand.  We  saw  few  birds,  two  or  three  scarlet 
flamingoes,  and  towards  evening  a  flock  of  scream- 
ing paroquets.  Our  boat  was  the  second  to  arrive 
at  Crudes,  thinking  ourselves  fortunate  to  pass  the 
rapids  before  dark.  Crudes  is  a  town  of  two- 
thousand  inhabitants,  who  live  in  huts  along  the 
river.  The  hotels  are  barracks,  built  of  reeds  with- 
out any  floors,  the  display  of  liquors  terrific. 

"  We  left  Cru9es  in  the  morning,  and  plunged  at 
once  into  a  shady  wood,  sparkling  with  dewdrops. 
Some  part  of  the  road  is  an  old  rough  pavement, 
covered  with  muddy  water,  other  parts  are  like 
the  worst  of  Irish  bogs,  up  to  the  mules'  bellies.  I 
was  a  little  anxious  about  these  bad  spots,  and  I 
tried  to  guide  my  mule,  but  soon  gave  it  up,  and 
yielded  to  her  entirely,  only  lifting  my  rubber- 
covered  legs  when  the  mud  was  deepest.  The 
weather  was  very  fine,  and  the  clear  sky,  the 
sparkling  light  and  the  broad  leaves  of  unknown 
plants  with  gigantic  shadows  delighted  me.  Some- 
times the  mule  track  ran  through  defiles  so  narrow 
that  there  was  only  room  to  clear  one's  legs,  and 
if  the  animal  entered  with  the  wrong  foot  foremost 
he  was  obliged  to  stop  and  change,  each  track  being 
formed  to  fit  the  feet.     Through  these  places  a  cool 


lit 


^\\' 


1  p 


96 


TROPICAL    SCENES. 


[1852 


air  drew,  and  the  moist  rock  was  covered  with  ex- 
quisite mosses  and  ferns,  while  above,  the  forest 
hung  like  a  bower.  Then  the  road  would  expand 
into  a  glade,  surrounded  by  mighty  trees,  their 
clean  trunks  festooned  with  strange  parasites,  and 
columnar  palms  made  a  portico  to  the  lovely  spot. 
I  saw  few  flowers.  Long  rainy  days  are  hardly 
known  here,  and  as  the  showers  generally  fall 
about  noon  in  the  rainy  season,  the  nights  are  cool 
and  fine.  In  general,  the  forest  is  too  thick  to 
admit  of  extended  views,  but  when  it  does  open 
from  above,  the  onect  of  such  an  ocean  of  vegeta- 
tion is  sublime.  The  world,  the  inexhaustible 
world,  grows  large  before  you.  But  when  the  eyes 
are  drinking  in  so  much,  a  kind  of  intoxication  is 
followed  by  indifference,  and  you  hasten  on  almobfc 
carelessly.  To  me  it  was  a  day  of  the  greatest 
delight,  and  though  feverish  and  far  from  well,  I 
felt  no  fatigue,  and  floundered  along  on  my  brave 
mule.  Her  trot  was  delightful,  and  clip-clap  we 
went  over  the  stones,  wherever  there  was  a  clear 
spot.  I  took  at  last  the  better  road  near  the  town, 
and  galloping  just  ahead  of  black  thunder  clouds, 
with  a  flying  glimpse  of  the  Pacific,  whisked  through 
the  ruined  gate,  over  the  ruined  bridge  into  Pan- 
ama, and  cantering  through  the  paved  street, 
shabby  but  picturesque,  and  across  the  Cathedral 
plaza,  I  saw  the  Pacific  Mail  Steamship  office,  and 
tumbling,  besplashed  and  begrimed  from  my  mule, 
found  myself  at  home.  And  a  very  good  home  it 
is.     We  live  and  have  our  office  on  the  second 


jEt.  23] 


PANAMA. 


floor  of  an  old  Spanish  building.  The  rooms  are 
very  lofty,  from  sixteen  to  eighteen  feet  high,  the 
walls  thick  and  substantial,  rough  whitewashed, 
and  the  open  rafters  rising  ten  feet  more,  for  cool- 
ness. Openings  are  also  left  in  the  exterior  walls 
for  ventilation.  The  eaves  hang  about  ten  feet, 
and  underneath  is  a  broad  veranda,  extending 
quite  round  the  two  fronts  of  the  building,  and 
affording  a  delightful  lounge.  eJust  now,  9  i\  At., 
the  mercury  is  at  78^,  there  is  a  soft  and  cooling 
breeze,  and  the  stars  are  bright  above  the  old 
towers  of  the  Cathedral.  You  enter  from  the 
street  into  a  brick-paved  court,  surrounded  by  a 
balcony.  Everything  looks  rough,  but  agreeable. 
Our  state  apartments  are  covered  with  matting. 
The  great  door-windows  stand  open  all  the  time, 
the  wood-work  is  of  coarse  mahogany.  You  might 
say  the  whole  place  looked  like  an  upper-class 
barn,  but  there's  nothing  nicer  than  a  barn,  and  I 
assure  you  it's  very  comfortable.  I  have  had  a 
little  fever,  and  as  is  usually  the  case  at  first,  a 
languor  almost  lethargic  stole  over  me,  making  ex- 
srtion  impossible.  Now  I  feel  more  lively,  and 
shall  soon  be  all  right.  There  is,  I  am  convinced, 
nothing  to  fear  for  those  who  live  prudently.  I 
never  imagined  how  great  a  luxury  ice  could  be ! 
Men  say,  'I'll  bet  you  ice  of  it;'  and  offer  iced 
beverages  as  the  greatest  treat.     I  am  now  here 

temporarily,  during  Mr.  's  absence,  and  may 

return.  This  depends  on  arrangements  of  the 
office.     I  am  pleased  with  everything,  and  would 


M 


J 


98 


PANAMA. 


[1852 


i 


willingly  stay.  I  like  to  see  and  realize  all  these 
places,  and  if  anything  more  comes  of  my  trip,  it 
is  so  much  gained.  We  have  a  nice  set  of  men 
here,  and  there  is  some  amusement  always  on 
hand.     With  love  to  all,  dear  mother, 

"  Yours, 

"ThEO.    WlNTHROP." 
"Panama,  Sept.  26th,  1852. 

"  My  dear  Mother, — I  have  described  to  you  my 
first  impressions;  now  I  can  speak  as  an  old  resi- 
dent. I  am  reasonably  well,  and  quite  contented ; 
much  more  so  than  during  my  last  year  in  New 
York.  As  this  is  the  dull  season  for  passengers, 
I  have  time  for  studying  Spanish,  and  reading,  as 
much  as  the  indolent  climate  will  permit.  The 
society  in  the  office  is  pleasant,  and  our  chat  at 
meals  amusing.  My  foremost  interest  here  was 
certainly  the  great  Western  Ocean,  which  of  course 
I  expected  to  find  on  the  west,  and  to  know  that 
the  sun,  when  it  sunk  every  night,  was  on  its  way 
to  wake  up  the  Japanese,  without  any  work  to  do, 
but  to  see  its  own  broad  face  on  the  shifting  swells. 
I  was  surprised  to  see  the  ocean  on  the  east.  This 
is  owing  to  the  shape  of  the  coast,  as  you  can  see 
on  the  map.  The  town  lies  upon  a  point  of  land, 
terminating  in  a  reef — at  low  tide  a  mile  long,  but 
as  there  is  a  rise  of  twenty-two  feet,  the  water  at 
high  tide  bathes  the  foot  of  the  walls.  The  circuit 
of  these  old  walls  is  nearly  a  mile,  and  you  can 
still  walk  round  them,  though  they  are  somewhat 
ruined.     The  fine  bastions  are  tolerably  preserved, 


1 


Mt.  24] 


TABOGA. 


99 


aiid  they  are  surrounded  on  all  three  sides  by  water, 
so  that  they  give  a  line  promenade  and  view.  Some 
twenty  grand  old  bronze  f  .nnon  are  mounted  there, 
and  the  nea  da^shes  round  the  base,  thirty  or  forty 
feet  below,  or  retiring,  leaves  the  reef  bare,  and  cov- 
ered with  little  shell  fish.  On  the  northern  side  of 
the  town  is  a  fine  crescent-shaped  beach,  of  four 
miles  in  circuit,  terminating  in  a  rocky  point,  be- 
hind which  is  the  site  of  old  Panama.  Low  trees 
grow  down  to  the  sand.  There  is  a  great  variety 
of  shells,  and  crabs  are  as  thick  as  ants  in  an  ant 
hill.  Above  the  town  are  concentric  ranges  of 
hills,  thickly  covered  with  forests,  solitary  and 
impressive,  from  which  there  is  an  extensive  view 
over  this  vast  sweep  of  the  lonely  bay,  and  the  tile- 
covered  roofs  of  the  town  under  your  feet.  Panama 
is  like  an  old  Spanish  town.  The  bay  is  beautiful. 
Six  large  islands  rise  from  the  water,  besides  sev- 
eral little  rock  islets.  Taboga,  the  most  distant 
and  the  largest,  is  lofty,  rising  twelve  hundred 
feet,  and  thickly  and  richly  wooded  nearly  to  the 
top.  The  houses  of  its  natives  are  clustered  near 
the  beach,  in  front  of  the  palm  groves,  and  about 
a  gun  shot  from  shore  lie  the  ships  at  anchor,  so 
there  is  always  a  busy  look.  It  is  the  ideal  of  a 
tropical  island.  The  night  I  spent  there,  I  arose 
after  feverish  tossings,  and  dreams,  and  with  Mr. 

,  followed  up  the  valley  or  rather  ravine  of  a 

clear  mountain  stream,  with  the  early  sunlight 
touching  the  massive  foliage  of  unknown  trees,  to 
some  nymph  baths  in  the  cavities  of  the  rocks. 


I 


5t' 

fi 


r|f 


3 


5    f 

I 


,; 


100 


TABOGA. 


[1852 


i 


My  bath  was  a  deep  rock-pool,  a  basin  which  I 
could  span  with  my  arms,  and  the  water  just  over 
my  head.  Into  this  a  slender  cascade  fell  four  or 
five  feet  down,  with  an  accommodating  ledge  to  sit 
npon,  and  receive  the  douche.  It  was  the  luxury 
of  a  bath. 

"  Taboga  is  nine  miles  from  Panama.  A  small 
steamer  runs  there  once  a  day,  passing  the  other 
islands,  some  of  which  rise  in  conical  form,  four 
or  five  hundred  feet  from  the  water.  You  can 
easily  imagine  that,  with  these  green  outlines;  the 
heavy  hill  masses  in  the  background;  the  faint 
line  of  the  distant  shore  of  the  bay,  blue  upon 
the  horizon;  the  old  rusty  city  and  its  batteries, 
the  view  is  in  the  highest  degree  beautiful.  It  is, 
however,  the  beauty  of  the  volcanic  tropic ;  far  dif- 
ferent from  the  picturesque  north.  It  has  a  certain 
sameness  that  might  become  wearisome,  just  as 
the  unchanging  summer  might  make  on^  sigh  for 
the  bracing  air  of  our  December.  I  find  it  impos- 
sible to  persuade  myself  that  this  hot  weather  will 
last  forever  like  this.  Yet,  for  a  hot  climate,  it  is 
a  delightful  one.  Exertion  and  exercise  are  im- 
possible, and  the  sun  at  midday  cannot  be  borne, 
but  as  soon  as  instantaneous  evening  has  come 
on,  a  cool  breeze  from  the  land  falls  over  the  hill, 
and  the  night  is  restoring.  The  showers  come  on 
at  noon,  and  for  half  an  hour  the  Plaza  is  afloat, 
and  a  river  runs  by  our  ofiice  to  the  bay.  Great 
black  tumbling  clouds  pursue  the  ranges  down  to 
the  coast,  and  then  break  away  into  masses  all 


Mt.  24] 


PANAMA. 


101 


over  the  sky,  which  at  this  season  is  almost  al- 
ways watery.  I  have  found  in  the  woods  many 
beautiful  flowers.  The  fruit  trees  combine  beauty 
with  utility,  and  are  the  handsomest  of  the  forest. 
One  could  make  here  a  true  garden  of  the  Hes- 
perides.  We  have  tropical  fruits  and  vegetables 
in  abundance,  with  fish  and  poultry — meat  is  poor. 
I  tell  you  these  things  just  as  I  think  of  them,  and 
shall  reserve  other  matters  for  chapters  in  my  Book! ! 
1  have  killed  one  scorpion, — mosquitoes  are  steady, 
but  not  very  venomous.  Fire  crackers  are  abun- 
dant and  noisy — so  are  bells.  Riding  is  the  only 
exercise  possible,  so  it  is  necessary  for  the  preser- 
vation of  health,  but  enormously  expensive.  Rents 
are  enormous — so  are  provisions — so  is  everything 
else.  I  have  assisted  in  the  dispatch  of  one  steam- 
er, and  got  the  run  of  matters.  We  had  really 
quite  an  exciting  time  of  it. 

"The  ships  are  in  tip-top  order;  the  enormous 
crowd  they  sometimes  carry  is  the  only  difficulty. 
If  I  keep  my  health  I  shall  do  very  well  here,  though 
I  cannot  feel  settled  yet.  As  I  may  not  have  time 
to-morrow  and  cannot  say  more  to-night,  I  will 
close,  with  best  love  for  all. 

"  Yours, 

"Theo.  Winthrop." 


3-  * 

In 

hit 


ii 


11 


"  Panama,  Oct.  3d,  16S2. 

"Dear  Mother, — since  I  wrote  to  you  I  have 
been  for  a  short  time  quite  ill,  but  am  now  very 
well,  and  the  better  for  the  attack  and  the  warn- 
ing.    I  shall  enjoy  riding  here  when  the  dry  sea- 


188903 


I 


I    if  -i 


102 


PANAMA. 


[1852 


son  comes.  To  the  north  of  the  town  are  wide, 
undulating  plains  called  Llanos.  These  are  quite 
uninclosed.  The  soil  is  red  clay,  only  very  short 
grass  grows  on  it.  At  intervals  groves  and  thickets 
of  shrubs  are  sprinkled  about,  and  the  same  rich 
vegetation  covers  the  conical  hills  that  give  variety 
to  the  landscape.  Occasionally  a  green  ravine  marks 
the  course  of  a  small  stream.  Nothing  could  be 
more  beautiful  than  these  parks  of  nature,  and  a 
ride  over  them,  on  one  of  the  quick-pacing  horses 
of  the  country,  is  exhilarating.  You  go  this  way 
and  that  on  chance  trails,  meeting  only  a  native  or 
two.  To  the  south  of  the  town  the  country  is  marsh 
or  forest  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  over  the  plains 
and  over  the  hills.  I  am  glad  to  hear  such  good 
accounts  from  all  at  home.  I  suffer  less  from  the 
heat  than  at  first,  and  continue  to  be  in  good  spirits 
and  happy,  and  could  be  contented  here  for  an  in- 
definite time." 

'  "Pai  tma,  Oct.  13th,  1852. 

"Dear  Motheu, — I  have  learned  something  by 
this  journey,  apart  from  the  knowledge  of  a  new 
part  of  the  world.  There  is  a  direct  contact  with 
men  here  which  cannot  fail  to  sharpen  the  facul- 
ties, and  I  may  possibly  be,  if  I  stay,  disciplined 
into  discretion  and  self-command,  both  of  which 
I  need.  Our  family  of  men  does  not  allow  the  self- 
ishness which  both  solitary  and  domestic  life  en- 
courage. I  am  now^  pretty  well,  and  expect  to 
continue  so.  Men  are  ill  and  die  here  principally 
on  account  of  the  lives  they  lead.    I  have  not  been 


■' 


if 


Mr.  24] 


PANAMA. 


103 


about  much,  for  the  rains  have  been  more  violent 
and  frequent.  Just  at  the  hour  for  going  out,  veri- 
table deluges  fall.  It  is  fun  to  see  how  all  the 
world  runs.  Nobody  has  far  to  go,  and  so  they 
wait  till  the  last  minute,  and  then  take  to  their 
heels,  from  the  lank,  pedagogical,  cat-smiling  Don, 
to  the  aboriginal  little  varmint  with  half  a  shirt 
and  a  tray  of  plantains  on  his  head.  The  Don 
takes  shelter  in  his  counting-house,  the  varmint 
sheds  his  shirt  and  mounting  a  stick  rides  boldly 
forth  through  the  shower,  an  agile  little  brjwnie. 
Presently,  squads  of  these  imps  appear,  *»  nd  as  a 
great  spout  of  water  begins  to  gush  from  the  gur- 
gogle  of  the  Cathedral  each  one  takes  his  station 
and  gets  a  douche,  that  I,  for  one,  envy. 

"  The  only  fault  1  have  to  find  with  Panama  is 
the  uncertainty  of  my  position,  which  I  hope  the 
next  steamer  will  remedy.  Meanwhile  I  am  ac- 
climating. Nothing  1  can  do  here,  as  I  have  said, 
is  so  delightful  as  riding  over  the  undulating  sa- 
vannas about  the  town,  long  land-swells  of  soft 
grass,  just  as  the  sun  is  setting,  and  the  cool  of  the 
evening  coming  on.  A  couple  of  miles  from  town 
is  the  farm  house  called  San  Jose  di  Dios,  formerly 
an  old  Jesuit  country  house,  commanding  the  whole 
sweep  of  the  country  and  bay.  Don  Carlos  Zachris- 
san,  a  Swede  and  former  merchant,  lives  there,  and 
we  occasionally  pay  him  a  visit.  No  lovelier  site 
could  be  found  for  a  house.  The  ground-floor  is  high 
and  open,  serving  for  shed,  etc.,  and  the  upper  floor 
alone,  as  is  usual  here,  is  inhabited  by  the  family. 


I 


104 


A    PICNIC. 


[185-2 


ii 


"Last  week,  being  at  Taboga,  1  joined  a  picnic 
party  with  some  of  our  employees,  to  go  to  the 
island  of  Taboguilla,  about  three  miles  off.  In  the 
rainy  season,  it  will  not  do  to  be  out  of  the  reach 
of  shelter,  8o  we  took  our  new  specie  scow,  a  great 
lubberly  craft,  but  with  a  covered  hold.  Poco  Tl- 
em'po  is  the  word  here,  so  our  jolly  party  did  not 
start  till  the  morning  breeze  was  just  dying  away, 
and  half  a  mile  from  the  shore  had  to  tow  her  with 
a  row-boat  we  had  brought  along, — I  volunteering 
for  bow-oar, — which  I  found  no  joke,  against  a  tide 
rising  twenty  feet.  The  grand  object  of  the  expe- 
dition was  a  real  Down  East  chowder,  and  fish  was 
to  be  caught  for  the  purpose ;  but  as  I  did  not  like 
the  hot  sun,  I  preferred  landing  with  the  shore 
party.  Two  rocky  points  inclosed  a  smooth  white 
beach  behind  which  a  grove  of  cocoa  palms  drew 
along  under  the  hill.  There  was  a  hut  of  reeds 
for  our  dining-room  and  kitchen,  and  our  provender 
being  placed  in  the  hands  of  our  cook,  I  started 
with  the  wooden-legged  commander  of  our  coal- 
hulks,  a  capital  fellow,  on  a  foraging  expedition. 
There  was  a  sort  of  garden  on  the  island,  where  I 
found  some  small  tomatoes  and  red  peppers  for  our 
stew.  As  I  went  farther,  I  found  myself  in  an  im- 
mense grove  of  plantains  and  bananas,  growing 
about  twelve  feet  high,  and  forming  a  complete 
protection  from  the  sun  and  rain.  The  fruit  is 
plucked  before  it  is  quite  ripe,  by  the  summary 
process  of  cutting  down  the  plant,  from  whose 
roots  new  shoots  spring.     The  bunches  are  then 


^T.  24] 


LANDIXG   COLD. 


105 


hung  in  the  sun  to  ripen.  Arming  myself  with 
some  fruit,  1  came  down  to  the  party,  and  though 
the  fishermen  got  nothing,  we  had  a  capital  din- 
ner and  speeches  in  plenty.  Going  home,  the  skies 
fell  upon  us,  and  then  the  wind  falling  after,  wo 
took  to  the  boats  and  pulled  away  a  four-oarod 
man-of-war  stroke  home  in  the  cool  dark  night. 
Sea-going  men  love  to  talk  when  they  can  get  any 
one  to  listen,  and  as  I  am  a  pretty  good  listener,  I 
have  plenty  of  amusement  with  some  of  our  people, 
who  are  a  capital  set.  The  history  of  this  coast, 
with  which  our  company  is  identified,  is  of  itself  a 
most  romantic  one." 

♦•  October  17th,  1852. 

"  The  Tennessee  arrived  yesterday,  and  not  being 
able  to  take  the  treasure  ($2,000,000)  from  the  specie 
launch  that  night,  several  of  us  guarded  it  on  board, 
keeping  watch  under  the  stars  with  'sword  and 
pistol  by  our  side.'  It  was  rather  exciting  to  sleep 
on  a  blanket  on  deck  in  turn,  and  to  look  up  be- 
tween dozes  to  see  that  the  others  were  wide  awake, 
and  to  land  IT,  as  the  mild  broad  splendor  of  the 
morning  brightened  into  dawn,  glowing  across  the 
bay.  It  is  always  a  most  picturesque  scene,  this  land- 
ing treasure.  I  will  describe  it  hereafter.  With 
best  love,  and  hopes  to  hear  from  you  soon, 

"  Yours, 

"ThEO.  WiNTHROP." 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

^^  Panama,  Nov.  9th,  1853.  With  what  pleas- 
ui'e  shall  I  some  time  recollect  these   scenes  in 


106 


CLIMATE. 


[1852 


which  I  have  entered  upon  a  completely  new 
life,  and  having  begun  by  making  many  mistakes, 
am  now  beginning  to  control  and  direct  myself. 
With  a  pure  and  single  mind,  a  man  may  be 
happy  anywhere.  I  was  surprised  to  find  at  the 
time  of  the  yellow  fever  that  I  felt  no  fear,  and 
was  callous  to  the  fact  of  the  constant  deaths  around 
me.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I  did  not  see  death. 
God  preserve  in  my  absence  all  at  home !  I  could 
not  return  to  a  desolate  fireside,  and  home  is  my 
only  bond  to  anything  good." 

"  The  effect  of  this  climate  is  that  one  loses  that 
glad  self-imposition  of  labor  which  one  finds  in  a 
cold  climate.  I  have  the  spirit  of  travel  strong 
within  me.  Here  I  gain  nothing;  there  is  little  to 
do,  and  usually  1  am  positively  idle.  The  uncer- 
tainty of  my  residence  here  keeps  my  mind  em- 
ployed in  planning  for  the  future,  and  I  now  hope 
they  may  not  keep  me  to  my  present  employment, 
as  I  can  do  much  better  for  myself  Energy  is 
sunk,  when  a  man  works  on  a  salary  without  the 
spur  of  personal  interest.  I  am  sure  of  doing  well 
in  the  course  I  propose.  This  will  probably  require 
my  return  to  New  York  for  a  time.  Why  do  men 
live?  Just  tell  me  that  if  you  please,  and  I  will 
go  home,  and  save  myself  all  the  lifelong  labor  of 
the  inquiry." 

"  How  warm -bath  like  it  was  yesterday  evening 
at  the  ball !  The  Flexibles  or  Lancasterianos  were 
in  full  feather,  the  lions  of  the  occasion.  Hence- 
forth I  have  new  ideas  of  the  Polka,  as  danced 


.Er.  24] 


TABOGA. 


107 


with  the  mercury  at  85%  while  turning  a  stout 
lady  who  danced  stiffly.  But  really  a  dance  like 
that  was  a  very  agreeable  variety  here.  The  even- 
ings and  nights  continue  to  be  delicious.  How 
shall  I  ever  be  contented  where  fires  are.  The  last 
days  of  the  Carnival  have  been  quite  gay  among 
the  natives,  the  plazas  full  of  people  in  their  best 
clothes.     All  night  they  keep  up  their  fandangoes." 

"  Delightful  to  watch  tlie  approach  of  day  on  a 
coal  ship,  and  lie  in  a  hammock  all  day  and  listen 
to  the  grumbles  and  yarns  of  our  one-legged  com- 
mander. All  around  swim  processions  of  beautiful 
fish,  irresponsive  however  to  my  hook." 

"  The  shores  of  Taboga  away  from  the  port  are 
much  bolder,  the  heights  fall  down  almost  perpen- 
dicularly, and  a  rich  warm  covering  of  trees,  many 
of  them  fringed  with  moss,  droop  beautifully  down 
the  sides.  The  dark  green  water  breaks  grandly 
on  the  sunken  rocks,  and  roars  in  the  crevices. 
There  is  said  to  be  a  cave  under  the  cliffs,  filled 
with  human  bones  and  "  mucho  oro."  No  one  on 
the  island  appears  to  have  entered  it,  they  were 
afraid.  I  provided  myself  with  candles  to  explore 
it,  but  the  state  of  the  tide  prevented  me  from  land- 
ing, and  I  had  to  content  myself  with  listening  to 
the  roar  of  the  surf  in  the  subterranean  chamber, 
though  I  doubt  if  it  is  of  any  great  extent.  I  cannot 
describe  the  beauty  of  the  woods  that  follow  down 
the  little  brooks  in  the  island,  nor  the  feathery 
foliage  of  an  old  grove  of  tamarind  treeb  on  the 
sand  near  the  shore,  nor  an  orange  orchard  near  to 


% 


J  u 


'l 


108 


TABOGA. 


[1852 


these.  The  view  from  the  summit  oi  Taboga  is 
beautiful  indeed.  The  outlook  is  unimpeded  over 
the  sea  that  foams  and  dashes  silently  below." 

"All  the  inlands  of  the  bay  are  visible,  and  the 
village  of  Taboga  and  its  shipping  look  to  you  as 
they  do  to  the  eyes  of  the  Turkey  buzzards,  lazily 
flapping  over  the  top.  The  pearl  islands  are  blue 
clouds  to  seaward,  the  long  line  of  the  coast 
stretches  far  up  and  down  in  a  succession  of  conical 
peaks,  as  wild  and  solitary  as  when  the  Spaniards 
flrst  landed  there. — We  descended  in  a  break-neck 
line  through  a  wood,  and  at  dusk  came,  pine-ap- 
ple-serrated-leaf-leg-scratchedly  down  to  the  vil- 
lage. To-day  is  Sunday,  but  it  has  been  a  busy  one. 
We  have  been  all  day  landing  the  treasure  from 
the  steamer  Oregon.  The  pull  on  board  ship  in 
the  cool  morning  was  delightful.  We  send  the 
treasure  ashore  from  the  steamer  anchorage,  two 
or  three  miles,  in  a  large  flat-bottomed  launch.  We 
bring  it  as  near  the  shelving  beach  as  possible,  and 
then  our  principal  man,  Jose  Maria,  an  athletic,  in- 
telligent native,  strips,  and  shoulders  out  the  heavy 
boxes.  His  assistants  carry  it  to  the  place  where 
the  mules  are  waiting.  We  of  the  Pacific  Mail 
Steamship  Company,  stand  all  along  the  line  and 
watch  each  precious  box  with  jealous  care.  It  is 
I)ut  on  the  mules,  a  box  weighing  from  seventy  to 
one  hundred  pounds  on  each  side." 

"Pawmat  Nov.  2d,  1862. 

*'Dear  Mother, — In  the  morning,  after  closing 
my  last  letter,  I  got  up  at  3  a.  m.,  and  soon  started 


»* 


JSt.  24] 


THE    GOLD    TRAIN. 


109 


I 


„ 


with  Mr. ,  at  five,  to  accompany  the  gold  train. 

At  five  it  is  quite  light  in  these  latitudes.  We  had 
let  the  trains  get  perhaps  half  an  hour  in  advance, 
and  had  heard  the  arrieros  go  singing  off  in  the 
dusk.  Everything  was  carefully  packed,  and  I  ig- 
norantly  thought  that  all  was  arranged  for  the  trip, 
but  just  outside  the  town  we  found  everything  in 
confusion.  The  whole  fifty  or  sixty  mules  with 
twenty  men  were  brought  to  a  stand  still.  The 
mules  are  tied  nose  and  tail,  four  or  five  together, 
and  any  disarrangement  in  the  fixtures  of  one 
puts  a  brake  on  the  progress  of  all.  The  lashings 
by  which  the  boxes  are  attached  to  the  animal  are 
as  complicated  as  the  darns  of  an  old  blue  woolen 
stocking,  or  the  lacings  of  a  Greek  herdsman's 
sandal,  and  they  fasten,  not  only  the  boxes,  but 
all  the  traps  of  the  muleteers,  and  perhaps  a  live 
chicken  or  two  by  the  leg.  All  was  at  loose  ends, 
some  muleteers  eating  breakfast,  some  standing 
about,  and  saying  '"poco  tiempo.'  Mr.  how- 
ever soon  put  a  very  different  face  upon  the  matter, 
by  riding  about  and  slashing  men  and  mules  in- 
discriminately, and  presently  we  were  off,  the  mule- 
teers tugging  at  the  leading  ropes,  and  the  guards 
punching  in  the  rear.  There  was  profundity  of 
mn  1  all  along,  and  the  beasts  (now  united),  avoid- 
ing the  depths,  strayed  everywhere  among  the 
bushes,  necessitating  hurry-scurry  pursuit  by  half 
naked  drivers,  with  shouts  and  screams.  The  morn- 
ing was  as  early  mornings  are  here,  the  sky  varied 
with  heavy  clouds  and  mists,  colored  by  the  sun- 


110 


THE   RIVER    CROSSING. 


[1852 


I     li 


rise,  the  forest  hills  holding  the  wreaths  of  mist 
like  patches  of  melting  snow.  Nothing  could  be 
worse  than  the  road,  and  so  thought  the  pedes- 
trians, California  bound,  who,  lifting  up  sadly  the 
patches  of  torn  boot  that  still  adhered  to  their  legs, 
asked  despairingly  the  distance  to  Panama.  A  lit- 
tle out  of  the  town  we  met  a  large  party, — some 
twenty  hand-organs,  with  their  Italian  grinders — 
then  parties  of  tired  men  and  women,  the  latter  in 
Amazonian  attire  and  sitting  *  Califourchon '  on 
their  mules,  a  little  uncertain  whether  to  laugh 
or  blush,  and  oh,  how  dirty !  Making  progress  of 
a  mile  and  a  half  an  hour,  we  came  about  nine 
o'clock  to  the  river  Cardenas,  where  we  overtook 
the  whole  train  mustering  in  the  stream,  now 
about  two  hundred  feet  wide.  The  scene  was 
very  picturesque — the  river  is  rapid,  and  winds  in 
a  spot  where  the  thicket  has  given  place  to  enor- 
mous trees  that  embower  its  current,  under  these, 
and  around  a  hut,  all  the  mules  and  their  drivers 
are  grouped,  and  just  as  we  turned  into  the  open- 
ing a  body  of  California-bound  came  down  into 
the  water,  among  whom  I  recognized  the  Kev. 
,  half-cracked,  bedraggled  and  benevo- 
lent, (looking  very  diiferent  from  the  last  time  I 
saw  him  in  spotless  surplice,  saying  'Dearly  be- 
loved,') who  had  given  up  his  mule  to  a  woman 
in  distress.  There  was  also  a  sturdy  Paddy  woman, 
who  marched  right  through  the  stream,  disdaining 
to  hold  up  her  skirts,  which  the  flowing  river  washed 
as  she  went.     She  called  encouragingly  to  her  friend, 


t 


1 


f- 


% 


/Ex.  24] 


MALAPROPS. 


Ill 


who  followed,  '  Here,  Mrs.  JMcGarvey !  this  way,  Mrs. 
McGarvey !  never  mind,  my  dare.' 

"Next  day  the  balconies  of  the  hotel  were  draped 
with  wet  clothes,  and  the  town  pervaded  by  their 
odor.  Having  seen  the  gold  (the  largest  quantity 
ever  sent)  safely  started,  we  turned  back,  and 
splashing  through  the  mud,  with  the  help  of  big 
spurs  and  whips  accomplished  the  six  miles  in  an 
hour  and  a  half 

"  We  met  the  mail  agent,  famous  for  his  Malaprops. 
These  are  authentic.  '  I  hope  the  Department  will 
let  me  stop  over  one  trip,  as  I  have  provided  a  snh- 
terfiige.  'Yes,  sir!  I  like  the  Oregon  \  On  board 
I  was  treated  with  perfect  impunity.''  '  No,  sir  !  I 
did  not  strike  him,  sir;  but  I  loaded  him  with  op- 
probrious epitaphs  1 ' 

"  For  a  man  who  is  capable  of  seeing  and  grasp- 
ing opportunities,  Panama  is  the  focus  of  two  Amer- 
icas. It  commands  the  Australian  continent,  and 
is  within  easy  reach  of  the  Indies.  South  America 
is  at  hand  with  inexhaustible  wealth,  untouched 
as  at  the  creation.  This  very  Isthmus,  small  as 
it  looks  on  the  map,  has  miles  and  miles  of  the 
richest  soil,  capable  of  producing  everything  that 
a  warm  climate  allows." 

^^Panama,  Nov.  17th,  1852. 

"  Dear  Mother, — You  are  perhaps  shivering  along 
to  church,  and  on  your  return,  sitting  by  the  good 
old  grate  in  the  dear  old  parlor,  which  existed  when 
I  was  a  boy,  and  which  still,  on  the  domestic  Sun- 
day evening,  retains  its  ancient  privilege  of  assem- 


112 


TROPICAL    NIGHTS, 


[1852 


i ; 


bling  the  family,  for  the  enjoyment  that  family  af- 
fection can  give  to  those  who  know  what  it  is. 
While  I,  deprived  of  these  pleasures,  sit  in  my 
thinnest  clothes,  and  try  to  catch  each  puff  of  the 
southerly  breeze.  This  is  no  cold  November  blast 
but  a  delicious  fresh  wind,  accompanied  by  the  roar 
of  the  surf  that  glitters,  wind  scattered.  I  appre- 
ciate the  nature  of  the  day,  though  I  have  just  run 
away  from  our  church,  where  a  half-cracked  Bap- 
tist, dressed  in  a  queer  white  ascension  robe  fas- 
tened by  nine  gold  clasps,  after  thanking  God  tliat 
he  was  not  as  other  men  are,  began  giving  out  his 
own  version  of  the  Bible,  beginning  with  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis.  I  miss  very  much  the  quiet 
rational  pleasures  of  life  at  home. 

*'  As  the  dry  season  approaches,  the  rains  become 
less  frequent,  the  sky  clearer.  At  night  the  stars 
are  most  brilliant  and  twinkle  more  than  ours. 
Sirius  flickers  like  the  flame  of  a  blown  candle  and 
seems  almost  extinguished,  then  bursting  out  in 
splendor.  Now  too,  for  the  first  time,  I  see  the 
clear  moonlight — the  days  of  parching  glare  are 
approaching.  There  are  many  things  pleasant  in 
my  life  here,  such  as,  this  morning,  tumbling  up 
at  dawn  and  pulling  out  in  the  beautiful  coolness 
to  the  steamer,  with  the  addition  of  the  excitement 
of  the  news.  On  the  beach  all  was  bustle — native 
porters  squabbling,  boatmen  shouting." 

"  But  on  the  water,  and  over  the  soft  wash  of 
the  swells,  all  was  quiet — the  hills  and  islands 
softly  veiled  in  mist;  the  steamer  and  the  ships 


I 


n  -■}'. 


Mt.  24] 


SUNDA  YS. 


113 


L 


swinging  with  indolent  grace  to  their  anchors.  On 
board  was  worse  confnsioii.  An  exodus  of  gold 
diggers  with  their  luggage  were  pushing  across  the 
narrow  gangway,  wiiile,  as  man  after  man  issued 
from  the  press,  they  were  received  and  dismembered 
by  the  boatmen  below — clamorously.  Homer  would 
have  added  an  'as  when.'  Or  the  morning  when 
I  turned  out  at  1  a.  m.,  and  in  the  delicious  tropical 
night,  pulled  to  the  CaUforma,  bringing  tlio  largest 
treasure  yet,  $2,600,000,  and  shipping  it  by  pictur- 
esque lampliglit  and  by  the  clear  beam  of  moon- 
like Lucifer.  These  things  are  so  delightful  to  me 
that  I  fear  lest  I  shall  tire  you  by  my  description." 

"  Nov.  21st,  1852.  I  rejoice  that  my  residence  in 
Panama  is  drawing  to  a  close,  but  I  shall  not  re- 
turn without  seeing  San  Francis(;o.  This  is  Sunday, 
but  the  quiet  of  the  day  is  disturbed  by  the  festiv- 
ities of  the  New  Granadian  Independence,  and  fire- 
works, crackers,  and  a  ball,  are  the  order  of  the  day, 
while  the  troops,  clad  in  a  sweltering  uniform,  are 
marching  and  firing." 

"  All  the  church  ceremonies,  and  many  of  the 
customs  here  are  ridiculous,  from  their  not  being 
adapted  to  the  climate,  but  formed  on  European 
models.  The  only  peculiar  and  pretty  thing  is  the 
costume  of  the  ladies,  who  discard  the  bonnet,  and 
wearing  instead  the  veil,  add  much  to  their  charms. 
To-day,  as  they  knelt,  in  heaps  of  muslin  and  lace, 
on  the  cathedral  floor,  they  looked  very  attractive." 

"  I  am  now  awaiting  further  advices  from  Mr. 
Aspinwall  as  to  my  future  movements.     He  wrote 


m 


114 


DISCONTENTED, 


[1852 


that  I  would  probably  not  remain  in  Panama.  But 
love  to  all.  I  cannot  write  in  good  spirits,  though 
I  danced  off  the  last  remains  of  my  fever,  and  had 
a  jolly  time  with  the  fair  ladies  of  Panama  last 
niglit.  I  have  been  ill;  but  what  right  have  I  to 
make  you  unhaj^py  by  my  despondency.  I  am  los- 
ing all  my  friends*  weddings — when  will  my  turn 
come?  " 

"  December  4th,  1852.  Summer  is  approaching,  1 
feel  misplaced  here  and  discontented."      .... 

The  nlace  in  the  Pacific  Mail  Steamship  Company, 
and  still  more  at  Panama,  seems  to  have  been  made  for 
Wintlirop  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Aspinwall,  and  his 
sincere  desire  to  serve  him,  without  the  certainty  that 
there  was  really  a  suitable  opening  for  him.  On  ar- 
rival he  found  that  there  was  really  no  sufficient  opening, 
that  the  gentleman  he  was  expected  to  replace  wished 
to  return  to  Panama,  having  the  right  to  do  so,  and 
that  his  position  was  not  altogether  a  pleasant  one 
for  a  man  of  delicacy.  He  was  treated  with  great 
kindness,  however,  by  every  one  there,  and  found  his 
residence,  on  the  whole,  agreeable,  but  there  was  not 
enough  for  him  to  do,  nor  was  there  any  future  for 
a  man  of  his  stamp,  nor  any  reason  to  remain  and  lose 
his  time  and  health,  simply  to  be  a  ticket  agent,  or 
policeman  of  treasure. 

"D«c«jn6er  24th,  1862. 

*'  I  have  been  absent  sixteen  days  in  the  interior, 
in  that  part  of  the  Isthmus  above  Panama,  and  had 
a  most  interesting  tour  in  a  novel  country.  I  took 
a  primitive  coasting  canoe,  rigged  with  low,  square 


^r.  24] 


AN^  EXCURSION. 


115 


pjvils — very  fast — to  a  point  sortie  hundred  miles 
distant,  and  buying  a  horse,  returned  by  land,  stop- 
ping at  all  the  towns  and  villages.  The  country 
was  quite  different  from  my  expectations,  and  my 
tour  has  fortified  my  health  decidedly.  You  must 
not  have  too  high  an  idea  of  the  beauty  of  the  in- 
land scenery.  The  forests  are  usually  destitute  of 
fine  trees,  the  very  luxuriance  of  the  vegetation 
impeding  its  grandeur,  and  there  is  a  look  of 
tangled  neglect  in  the  thickets  of  vines.  But  the 
broad  sweeping  plains,  grazed  by  thousands  of  cat- 
tle, are  very  fine,  spreading  unbroken  sometimes  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  sometimes  undulat- 
ing softly  to  the  base  of  the  range  of  mountains 
that  lifts  itself  in  the  background.  Like  islands 
upon  these  seas  of  verdure,  lie  scattered  villages, 
sheltered  by  groves  of  palms  of  ever-rustling  foli 
age.  The  people  are  lively  and  picturesque ;  their 
wealth  consists  in  large  herds  of  cattle,  and  the 
style  of  life  is  simple  and  patriarchal,  a  little  viti- 
ated by  rumors  of  civilization  and  California.  I 
have  seldom  passed  a  fortnight  of  more  amusement 
and  instruction  combined. 

"  Two  gentlemen  of  my  acquaintance  were  about 
to  make  a  business  tour,  and  I,  having  nothing  to 
do,  seized  the  opportunity  to  go  with  them.  Sail- 
ing very  fast  before  the  light  airs  prevailing  along 
shore,  in  our  primitive  and  picturesque  craft,  and 
listening  to  the  monotonous  chant  which  our  crew 
kept  up  hour  after  hour,  one  forgets  the  present 
and  is  carried  back  to  the  early  ages  of  the  world. 


'  V    i 

11 


■ 


I 


% 


m 


III 


IIG 


T//£:  IMTERIOR. 


[1852 


We  were  two  beautiful  iiiglits  and  one  blazing  clay 
reachin<2^  our  destination  on  the  upper  side  of  the 
bay,  and  were  glad  to  leave  the  cramped  craft  and 
Btretch  our  itjgs  a  little  on  shore.  After  waiting 
some  time  at  the  mouth  of  a  small  river  for  the  tide 
to  rise,  we  ascended  its  rapid  course  for  four  miles 
or  so,  to  the  landing.  Tlie  low  banks  wero  covered 
with  swampy  bushes  or  large  trees,  and  every  few 
minutes  an  unwieldy  alligator  would  tumble  him- 
self into  the  stream;  from  the  hide  of  one  of  these 
fellows  my  ball  ghinced  oft",  as  from  a  coat  of  mail. 

"  Over  the  green  savannas,  after  a  day  or  two  of 
dry  weather,  you  can  gallop  as  on  a  race  course, 
but  in  the  swamps  are  horrid  bits,  where  we  went 
plunging  through  the  mud  up  to  our  horses'  bellies. 
The  mountains,  which  form  the  backbone  of  the 
Isthmus,  from  some  of  the  higher  peaks  of  which 
both  oceans  can  be  seen,  are  bare,  and  not  very 
bold,  thougli  one  striking  serrated  range  accom- 
panied us  for  several  days.  There  is  a  little  gold 
in  these  mountains,  but  the  valuable  mines  are 
further  south,  where  in  the  province  of  Chico  and 
on  the  banks  of  the  Atrato  are  fabulous  treasures. 

"  We  met  with  hospitality  everywhere  and  the 
fat  of  the  land.  The  houses,  one  story  high,  nn- 
ceiled,  with  earthen  or  tiled  floors,  are  composed 
generally  of  one  living  room  and  small  ones  ad- 
joining— cooking  is  done  in  a  shed.  All  the  towns 
are  near  a  stream  of  water.  The  Indians  live  in 
palm-leaf  huts.  The  life  seems  indolent,  but  the 
people  do  all  that  their  nature  requires,  and  live 


\ 


JEt.  24] 


THE    INTERIOR. 


117 


content — what  more  is  necessary.     "We  were  gazed 
on  with  curiosity  by  whole  vilhiges. 

''  Our  return  trip  was  made  on  horseback,  and  it 
would  be  long  to  tell  all  our  adventures.  How  my 
half-broken  yellow  horse  performed  sundry  capers, 
how  we  rode  to  the  festival  of  Penonome  with  the 
jolliest  of  galloping  priests,  where  we  saw  all  the 
prettiest  girls  in  the  country,  and  an  assemblage 
of  pure  Indians — Chok)s  from  the  mountains — else- 
where hardly  seen.  How  comical  was  the  proces- 
sion of  alcaldes  of  these  little  towns,  elegantly  at- 
tired in  antediluvian  cloth  coats,  and  followed  by 
ushers  with  long  black  rods,  going  to  offer  the  first 
fi'uits  of  their  villages  to  the  Padre.  How  I  grew 
fat  on  rice  stewed  in  liquid  lard,  sancoche,  eggs, 
maize  bollos,  and  tamal,  with  yard  after  yard  of 
jerked  beef,  and  relays  of  plantains  in  every  form. 
How  I  thought  oranges  rather  dear  at  sixteen  the 
half-dime.  How,  finding  my  companions  were  to 
stay  rather  too  long  at  Penonome,  1  straddled  my 
nag  and  went  to  Panama  alone,  with  a  boy  I  hired. 
How  I  enjoyed  it,  though  the  roads  were  severe. 
How  I  rode  over  seven  leagues  of  glorious  sea 
beach,  part  by  blazing  daylight,  and  part  by  the 
stars,  and  then  slung  my  hammock  and  waited  for 
the  dawn.  How  lovely  were  all  the  dawns  and  all 
the  nights  on  the  broad  plains.  I  could  fill  a  volume 
with  this  journey !  Stewing  with  heat  on  this  last 
day  of  1852,  I  am 

"  Yours  ever, 

"Theo.  VVintiirop." 


1!!; 


si 

% 


I 


! 


f 


118 


TY/Zi    A'A/r    r^V/A*. 


[1853 


"  Panama,  Jan.  2(1, 1853. 

"  It  8eeni8  fitting,  my  dear  mother,  that  I  should, 
with  the  New  Year,  renew  my  allegiance  to  you, 
jind  ofler  you  my  serviceH  i'or  what  they  are  worth. 
If  it  were  a  new  situation,  I  might  think  it  nec- 
essary to  recommend  myself,  and  recount  my  qual- 
ifications. Such  an  experiment  would  be  useless 
with  one  who  has  always  known  me  better  than  I 
know  myself.  So,  my  dear  mother,  if  you  will 
have  another  year  of  tiie  old  servant,  who  has  been 
in  your  family  more  than  twenty-four  years,  yoa 
must  take  him,  good,  bad  or  inditterent,  and  make 
the  best  of  him.  He  cannot  do  much,  but  the 
wages  he  requires  are  precious,  nothing  less  than 
your  love  will  satisfy  his  grasping  desire,  and  if 
you  deny  him  this,  he  will  be  in  despair.  For 
then,  not  only  will  he  lose  the  direct  benefits  of 
the  service,  but  the  companionship  of  those  who 
have  gladly  shared  it  with  him,  friendly  rivals  for 
the  favor  of  their  mistress.  Accept  then  my  alle- 
giance for  A.  D.  1853. 

"Panama  is  crowded  to-day  by  muddy  Ameri- 
cans, wetted  to  the  skin  by  an  expiring  deluge  of 
the  rainy  season,  which,  by  almanac,  should  have 
ended  a  month  ago.  The  New  Year  was  marked 
only  by  an  unusual  clatter  of  bells.  There  was  a 
band  of  exiled  Je.saits  here  yesterday,  dismissed 
from  the  South  American  Republics.  Ecuador  was 
the  last  to  find  them  dangerous,  and  dispatched 
these  thirty-four  fellows  to  Panama,  and  Panama 
pitilessly  hurried  them  away  in  their  priestly  robes, 


.T3r.  21] 


r.tXAMA. 


119 


topped  witli  striped  ponchoH,  iind  tliey  filed  away 
on  mule-back,  certaiidy  more  intelligent,  and  prob- 
ably more  virtnouH  than  the  establiHhed  priesthood. 
You  must  not  expect  much  of  a  letter,  for  I  was 
dancing  till  Hve  a.  m.,  and  rose  at  eight  to  go  to  a 
luneral.  There  are  (piite  charming  young  ladies 
here,  and  though  they  have  uot  much  education, 
yet  banalities  sound  quite  prettily,  lisped  in  their 
exquisite  language. 

'*  Do  send  me  some  books,  especially  travels  in 
South  America  and  Mexico.  I  have  plenty  of  time, 
and  want  to  inform  mysc^lf  about  the  countries  of 
this  continent,  becoming  more  and  more  important 
every  day.  One  of  the  i  leasantest  things  here,  is 
the  arrival  of  relay  a  ter  relay  of  our  officers  from 
the  steamers.  They  generally  stay  with  us,  and 
make  part  of  the  family.  They  are  sometimes 
jolly  rough  diamonds,  but  usually  educated  and 
agreeable. 

"The  \vorld  appears  to  be  boiling  up  pretty  well, 
but  we  lead  a  life  apart  from  all  except  the  interests 
of  the  company,  and  the  small  commerce  of  Pan- 
ama. Almost  every  one  in  the  town  is  engaged  in 
some  peddling  business,  or  endeavoring  to  prey 
upon  the  public  in  some  official  capacity.  The 
future  of  New  Granada,  if  it  is  to  have  one,  will 
not  come  from  the  men  of  Panama,  but  from  the 
interior  provinces.  I  am  disposed  to  believe  that 
the  capital,  Bogota,  is  much  more  enlightened  than 
this  place.  If  I  should  recall  here  what  I  said  and 
express  my  wish  to  escape,  you  will  no  doubt  think 


\ 


u 


I 


1? 


Hit 

i 

i 

: 

I 

■.    i 

m 

I 

I  ;i 

K    ';    i 
I'     I    '■' 


120 


PANAMA. 


[1853 


m 


me  inconsistent.  I  want  to  go  because  I  have  no 
settled  position  in  the  office,  and  consequently 
must  be  often  idle.  I  am  not  gaining  much  in 
business  experience,  and  in  a  mongrel  place  like 
this  I  have  no  good  opportunity  to  improve  in 
Spanish.  I  should  feel  better  if  1  thought  my  salt 
was  fairly  earned  here.  I  am  content  to  stay  only 
so  long  as  I  make  myself  so,  and  am  falling  into 
indifference.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  life  here, 
and  manage  to  pass  away  the  time,  if  without  pro- 
fit, without  ennui.  I  am  m,  probably,  for  an  ab- 
sence more  or  less  long  from  home,  but  I  may  stay 
here  for  some  time  longer,  if  1  have  anything  to 
gain  by  it.  I  have  still  the  promise  of  a  vacancy  in 
a  purser's  berth,  and  my  passage  to  San  Francisco. 
"  Jan.  24th.  I  spent  the  whole  of  Saturday  on 
the  gangway  of  the  steamer,  receiving  passengers 
and  disposing  of  them — there  were  some  three 
hundred  and  seventy — and  then  was  up  all  night 
on  board  until  the  ship  left.  The  dispatch  of  one 
of  these  crowded  vessels  is  something  you  can 
have  no  idea  of;  such  thronging,  such  crushing, 
such  shirking  payment.  Now  that  I  am  get- 
ting well  into  it,  I  find  it  a  very  agreeable  life. 
The  climate  suits  my  stomach,  and  I  am  prudent 
and  tip-toppish.  You  must  be  tired  of  my  raptures 
about  the  nigiits,  but  I  am  never  tired  of  them. 
It  is  perfect  bliss  to  exist.  As  soon  as  the  sun  sets 
a  roseate  flush,  passing  into  the  tenderest  lilac, 
covers  the  sky  nearly  to  the  zenith,  and  then 
changes  gradually  to  a  golden  light,  only  giving 


JET.  24] 


ASPINIVALL. 


121 


>;a 


way  to  the  moon.  Then  the  delicious  cooling 
breeze  comes  down  from  the  mountains  and  rustles 
over  the  water. — Tliough  there  is  a  monstrous  im- 
provement in  the  people  who  go  to  California,  yet 
it  is  still  bad  enough.  The  close  contact  with  all 
sorts  of  characters  on  these  crowded  steamers  is 
very  demoralizing;  there  is  a  dreadful  degree  of 
familiarity,  and  if  I  were  taking  out  a  lady,  I  should 
wish  to  do  so  round  the  Cape,  in  one  of  those  fine 
ships.  This  will  be  changed  when  the  railroad  is 
finished.  Five  sheets  of  stuff  is  pretty  well  for  one 
letter  !     Eh,  madame  ?  " 

'MspinwaK, /an.  29th,  1853. 

"  Dear  jMother, — I  am  once  more  within  hailing 
distance  of  you,  though  really  no  nearer  than  usual. 
It  is  the  Atlantic  that  i.^  tumbling  so  furiously  on 
the  beach,  and  here  is  an  American  town,  with 
Yankee  houses,  and  Yankee  enterprise.  A  friend's 
wife  was  expected  in  the  steamer  from  New  York, 
and  I  came  down  to'escort  her  across  the  Isthmus 

to  her  husband,  Capt.  P ,  who  could  not  leave 

the  steamer  Since  I  was  here  in  September  the 
town  has  been  increasing,  and  the  raiUwad  extend- 
ing. No  one  can  have  an  idea  of  the  enormous 
difficulties  of  this  immense  enterprise,  nor  of  the 
dreadful  sacrifice  of  life  it  cost.  It  was  commordy 
said  to  be  built  of  dead  men's  bones  or  on  human 
sleepers.  Imagine  that  at  one  station  of  some  two 
hundred  and  twenty  men,  there  were,  day  before 
yesterday,  one  hundred  and  eighty  sick.  But  all 
the  gentlemen  of  the  corps  are  in  good  health.     It 


:iii 


% 


\ 


li 


n  i 


I 


122 


NIGHT  IN    THE   FOREST. 


[1853 


will  be  another  year's  work,  and  hartlly  before  the 
year  1854  will  the  first  train  make  \i^  triumphal 
entry  into  Panama.  Aspinwall,  like  Venice,  is  a 
city  in  the  sea,  and  now,  with  a  norther  blowing 
hard,  there  is  a  heavy  swell  tumbling  in  every- 
where and  wetting  you  as  you  go.  I  found  there 
had  been  some  mistake  about  the  arrangements 

for  Mrs.    P ,   so   I   volunteered  to  come,   and 

started  about  1  p.  m.  on  the  29th.  My  mule  was 
rather  slow,  and  evening  overtook  me  in  the  worst 
part  of  the  road.  It  was  at  first  very  pleasant,  as 
twilight  rapidly  faded  away,  to  pass  through  these 
cool  dim  depths,  but  as  it  grew  darker  and  darker, 
I  at  first  lost  sight  of  my  path,  (which  was  just 
as  well,  for  the  condition  of  it  was  awful,)  and  then 
of  my  white  mule;  so  I  thought  it  time  to  ?  o^  It 
was  exciting  and  romantic,  but  dangerous,  though 
one  has  confidence  in  these  animals;  so,  coming  to 
a  native  hut,  I  decided  to  wait  till  the  moon  rose. 
I  fortunately  had  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  drop  of 
brandy,  so  dividing  my  corner  of  a  loaf  with  my 
host,  I  made  a  light  supper,  and  went  to  bed  on  a 
hide  spread  on  the  ground.  About  nine  o'clock, 
after  a  short  nap,  the  moon  just  lighting  the  depths 
of  the  forest,  I  started  again,  and  enjoyed  the  re- 
mainder of  the  scramble.  The  neglected  woods 
were  beautiful  in  the  concealing  light  and  shadow, 
and  the  vines  and  creepers,  ragged  by  day,  were 
graceful  and  delicate  in  the  mysterious  moonlight. 
It  was  well  worth  seeing,  but  I  was  not  sorry  to 
change  total  solitude  for  the  huts  of  Cru9e8  on  the 


i    I 


^T.  24] 


A  SPIN  WALL. 


123 


Chagres  River.    Here  I  found  my  fVienn  Mr.  V , 

and  we  made  an  alliance  for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 
Next  morning  we  started  down  the  river  in  a 
canoe,  talking  away  the  time  very  pleasantly,  till 
the  distant  whistle  of  the  engine  put  him  on  the 
qid  V've  for  his  first  sight  of  a  railway — a  great 
event  in  a  man's  life.  Much  has  been  done  tow- 
ards the  completion  of  the  road  since  I  was  here. 
It  was  quite  refreshing  to  be  taken  back  to  civili- 
zation, and  to  see  the  interest  that  my  companion 
took  in  everything. 

"  Aspinvvall  is  upon  Manzanilla  Island,  which  is 
very  low,  in  some  parts  below  the  level  of  the  sea, 
that  filters  through  the  coral  reef,  and  has  heaped 
up  a  dike  of  sand  against  its  own  encroachments. 
Much  of  it  is  nothing  but  a  mangrove  swamp,  to 
be  filled  in  hereafter,  before  the  place  can  be  really 
healthy ;  some  of  these  swamps,  where  the  bushes 
have  been  cut  away,  and  only  the  small  tangled 
stumps  remain,  are  the  most  absolutely  desolate 
places  the  mind  can  conceive.  But  there  is  a  look 
of  progress  and  energy  here  which  astonishes  me, 

coming  from  Panama.     Last  night,   Capt.   P 

arrived,  relieving  me  from  responsibility.  The  gale 
is  etill  blowing  grandly,  with  interval  torrents  of 
rain.  Just  now  it  is  a  fine  sight  to  see  the  steamer 
come  rolling  and  pitching  into  the  harbor.  If  with 
these  rains,  which  prevail  at  least  eight  months  of  the 
year,  we  had  the  same  temperature  as  you,  the  coun- 
try would  be  almost  uninhabitable,  but  the  air  is  soft 
and  bpimy,  and  the  fresh  dampness  most  luxurious. 


^1 


M 


11 'N 


ii 


124 


A  SPIN  WALL. 


[1853 


•'Last  niglit,  at  eight,  the  Ohio  arrived,  and  I 
went  down  to  the  wharf  with  three  gentlemen  who 
expected  their  wives.     It  was  not  without  difficulty 

and  danger  that  Capt.  P and  I  went  on  board, 

he  to  be  disappointed  of  his  wife's  coming,  and 
saddened,  poor  fellow,  by  the  news  of  his  child's 
fatal  illness.  I  got  your  welcome  letters.  It  was 
refreshing  to  be  a  few  minutes  with  ladies.  The 
arrival  of  two  steamers  from  New  York,  and  one 
from  California,  with  an  aggregate  of  two  thou- 
sand people,  puts  this  place  in  an  uproar,  increased 
by  the  small  space  terra  firma  affords,  all  the  dry 
spots  being  in  demand  as  the  storm  continues. 
Wh.J  '  'ariety  of  life  one  sees  here!  Jews  are  in 
throng  The  temperature  is  several  degrees  lower 
than  in  Panama.  Keep  me  informed  of  what  goes 
on  in  the  world. 

"T.  W." 


"Dear  S :  It  is  quite  refreshing  to  think  of 

an  intelligent  lively  Yankee  young  lady,  such  as  I 
hope  you  are,  in  this  land  of  languor,  and  would 
be  doubly  so,  could  I  have  the  tonic  of  a  personal 
interview.  However,  I  try  sometimes  to  be  with 
you  in  spirit,  and  imagine  the  dear  happy  fireside. 
The  confidence  in  each  other  that  rules  in  such  a 
home  is  particularly  blissful  to  dwell  on,  in  this 
outer  world,  where  every  man's  hand  is  against  his 
neighbor.  At  home,  one  can,  for  a  while,  unbuckle 
the  hard  cuirass  of  defensive  armor,  and  rest  se- 
cure from  a  treacherous  attack." 


W-  i 


« 


^T.  24] 


PANAMA. 


125 


"Panama,  Feb.  12th,  1853. 

"Dear  Mother, — You  can  hardly  imagine  how 
dead  Panama  becomes  in  these  fortnightly  inter- 
vals between  steamers.  Never  in  my  life  have  I 
been  so  thoroughly  indolent  as  here,  and  I  am  be- 
coming heartily  tired  of  it.  I  cannot  possibly  make 
more  than  one  good  day's  work  of  all  I  have  to  do 
in  the  fortnight.  Your  wishes,  and  my  own  un- 
willingness to  lose  nearly  two  years  pas^sed  in  my 
present  employ,  keep  me  here  with  the  uncomfor- 
table feeling  that  I  am  after  all  dependent  on  a 
pafi'on.  The  sinecure  that  I  at  present  hold  has 
the  same  influence  as  an  office  under  government 
would  have,  it  makes  me  careless  and  irresponsi- 
ble. Discontented,  and  conscious  that  I  cannot 
continue  ?!0  long,  1  am  all  the  time  on  the  anxious 
seat.  By  every  steamer  I  look  for  some  orders  that 
never  come,  and  I  cannot  make  any  settled  plan  for 
the  future.  What  is  a  man  to  do,  who  at  the  very 
period  of  life  when  he  ought  to  be  in  the  straight, 
well-known  path  of  certain  and  steady  employment, 
when  he  should  have  the  self-guidance  of  a  nearly 
completed  development,  what  is  a  man  to  do,  who, 
instead  of  all  this,  is  still  afloat,  without  any  rud- 
der? I  have  always  supposed,  that,  at  twenty-five, 
the  manly  character  would  have  taken  its  tone,  as 
the  physical  is  then  complete.  I  know  this  is  pain- 
ful to  you,  but  I  must  sometimes  relieve  myself  of 
gnawing  thoughts,  or  I  shall  eat  my  heart  out, 
here.  My  health  is  good,  and  I  have  one  source 
of  pleasure,  my  daily  rides.    After  a  hard,  hot,  glar- 


126 


ON  A    HAND-CAR. 


[1853 


iiig  dav,  we  dine  at  four,  and  then  I  ride;  passing 
the  suburb  witli  its  straggling  huts,  I  come  upon 
the  plain  with  the  cool  wind  blowing  soft  in  my 
face.  The  level  light  of  the  declining  sun  gives  a 
magic  brilliancy  to  the  green  of  the  undulating 
savanna,  and  falls  upon  the  bold  islands  and 
sparkling  waters  of  the  bay.  Then,  when  I  turn 
back,  the  sun  sets,  the  wooded  hills  silhouette 
themselves  on  the  horizon,  the  softly  shaded  glow 
fades  and  gives  place  to  the  violet  of  the  tropics, 
where  the  new  moon  hangs.  Soon,  suddenly,  all 
.is  darkness  around  her  faint  fire." 


\\l 


*'  Dear  Motheii, — T  have  been  again  to  Aspinwall, 
part  of  the  way  on  a  hand-car 

"  I  walked  along  in  search  of  the  employees 
house,  but  by  some  means  passed  it,  and  went 
stumbling  over  the  track,  till  discovering  my  mis- 
take I  found  I  had  walked  three  miles  through  the 
solitude.  I  can  never  forget  that  starlight  walk, 
though  part  of  the  time  I  was  uncommonly  sleepy. 
Returning,  I  found  the  world  stirring  in  the  dawn, 
and  receiving  many  cautions  about  trairs,  I  tum- 
bled into  a  crack-wheeled  hand-car,  and  rolled  oft*. 
It  was  the  luxury  of  traveling,  to  be  whirled  along 
against  the  fresh  morning  breeze  that  my  own  prog- 
ress created,  down  the  long  narrow  vista  of  the 
forest.  The  great  buttressed  trees  seemed  to  have 
withdrawn  astonished  from  the  path,  while  deep 
among  the  mazes  of  the  untouched  woods  I  could 
see  that  the  large-leaved  vines  had  climbed  up  to 


t  ii 


^T.  24] 


A  SPIN  WALL. 


127 


the  tree-tops  to  see  this  wonderful  band  of  sun- 
light. Some  of  these  vines,  fell  down,  smooth,  leaf- 
less, and  straight  as  a  rope,  a  hundred  feet  to  the 
ground.  I  was  so  utterly  overcome  by  sleep  that 
I  lay  down  flat  in  the  car,  and  telling  my  two 
Carthagenians  that  I  would  give  them  a  dollar 
each,  if  I  arrived  by  a  certain  time,  I  enjoyed  one 
of  the  soundest  and  most  blissful  sleeps  of  my  life. 
I  was  awakened  by  the  stopping  of  the  car  to  al- 
low another  to  pass,  and  then  wide  awake,  I  be- 
thought myself  of  my  toilet.  A  muddy  mule-ride 
and  a  boat  trip  had  not  tended  to  cleanse  my  per- 
son, and  much  to  the  astonishment  of  the  men,  I 
opened  my  saddle-bags,  and  taking  out  clean  clothes, 
completely  arrayed  myself  rt^/resco.  By  and  by,  we 
began  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  the  train — pres- 
ently we  saw  it,  just  it  time  to  tumble  the  car  off, 
and  let  it  hurry  by.  Soon  bustling  and  American- 
ized Aspinwall  came  in  view.  I  had  about  an  hour 
there  and  returned  in  the  train  at  11  a.  m. 

'^  Aspimvall,  March,  1st,  1853.  This  place  has 
such  a  home  feeling  that  I  enjoy  my  visits  particu- 
larly. Last  evening  we  had  a  jolly  '  American 
time,'  and  some  sham  spiritual  manifestations.  I 
determined  on  this  trip  to  vary  my  route  a  little, 
and  joined  a  party  of  natives  who  were  going  down 
to  Gorgona  to  hire  their  mules  to  passengers.  We 
went  off  through  the  very  thickest  of  the  woods, 
by  the  land  route,  impassable  except  in  the  dry 
season,  and  pretty  bad  now.  Up  and  down  tre- 
mendously steep  pitches,  slippery  with  mud,  and 


If.' 


■ 


H 


128 


PAN'AMA. 


[1853 


tl 


hung  with  nooses  of  straggling  vines,  that  would 
now  and  then  try  to  hang  a  fellow  before  his  time. 
They  had  forgotten  my  crupper,  and  I  often  nearly 
slipped  forward  over  the  mule's  head,  while  Can- 
dido,  my  old  black  guide,  slipped  backwards  to  the 
tail  of  his.  The  heat  has  brought  out  some  new 
flowers,  especially  a  splendid  scarlet  passion  flower, 
but  the  variety  has  never  been  so  great  as  I  ex- 
pected. An  hour  aiid  a  half  of  this  riding  brought 
me  to  the  river,  and  thsnce  the  way  was  easy, 
across  a  fine  meadow,  sprinkled  with  trees.  I  wrote 
from  Panama  that  I  had  determined  to  go  to  San 
Francisco.  I  ought  to  see  it,  and  to  learn  the  Com- 
pany's mode  of  business  there.  But  1  find  that 
after  all  I  have  become  very  much  attached  to 
Panama,  with  all  its  disadvantages.  There  is  talk 
now  of  weekly  steamers,  which  will  give  more  in- 
terest to  the  life  there.  This  is  my  sixth  trip  across 
the  Isthmus.  We  had  the  yellow  fever  badly  at 
Panama,  six  weeks  ago,  but  only  among  the  pas- 
sengers. The  great  obstacle  to  my  success  here 
is  my  own  unsettled  feeling.  I  want  to  be  seeing 
the  world." 

^^  Panama,  March  8th,  1853.  To-day  I  start  for 
San  Francisco  in  the  California,  one  of  our  best 
ships.  I  have  not  left  the  Company's  employ,  and 
shall  have  the  same  option  that  I  have  here,  of 
taking  a  pursership,  when  there  is  one,  or  any 
other  chance  that  may  offer.  I  have  not  left  Pan- 
ama without  reflection.  I  have  been  here  six  months, 
and  know  the  place  and  all  in  it,  and  there  is  noth- 


Mr.  24] 


ACAPULCO. 


129 


inp^  more  for  me  to  do  liere.     Yet  I  leave  the  place 
and  many  friends  with  sincere  regret." 


■d 


"  AcapvUco,  March  \ii\x,  l%Si. 

*'My  dear  Mother, — Nearly  half  way  to  cool 
weather  again,  and  looking  to  the  positive  enjoy- 
ment of  pntting  on  warm  clothes  and  finding  pleas- 
ure in  a  fast  walk.  Panama  is  fading  already  in 
my  recollection,  and  the  existence  apart  that  I  led 
there  is  becoming  like  a  dream.  Yet  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  tear  myself  away,  and  I  shall  long  remem- 
ber the  Cathedral  Plaza  and  the  life  around  it. 
My  heart  always  sinks  when  I  remember  how  lit- 
tle my  health  fits  me  to  join  battle  with  the  giants 
1  see  around  me,  but  as  I  am  seeking  my  fortune, 
I  must  not  allow  apprehensions." 

"  Our  voyage  thus  far  has  been  agreeable,  with 
few  passengers,  and  pleasant  company  among  the 
officers.  The  ocean  has  been  strictly  Pacific,  hardly 
broken  by  a  ripple.  We  have  sailed  along  with  a 
remorseless  glare  of  sunlight,  and  I  have  felt  the 
heat  on  this  trip  more  than  at  any  time  in  Panama. 
At  first  we  passed  along  a  bold  hilly  shore,  thickly 
wooded  and  completely  solitary;  then  between 
rocky  islands,  and  then  leaving  the  land  blue  in 
the  distance,  and  striking  across  the  Bay  of  Tehuan- 
tepec,  we  are  now  in  sight  of  the  distant  Mexican 
coast.  We  have  had  no  events;  a  few  flying  fish, 
a  couple  of  water  spouts,  stretching  down  slender 
arms  of  cloud,  like  sherry  cobbler  tubes,  into  the 
water.  The  sea  is  beautifully  blue,  the  horizon 
cloudless,  the  iiights  fine,  with  a  young  moon." 


-Iff 

f 


I 


130 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 


[1853 


I 


•'  I  feel  very  far  from  home  and  have  no  idea 
wliat  I  shall  do  in  San  Francisco.  As  we  approach 
Acapnlco,  sailing  down  a  broad  belt  of  moonlight, 
nnmorouH  fires  of  burning  brush  blaze  wildly  on  the 
shore.  At  midnight,  we  plunged  into  the  (and, 
and  all  at  once,  a  way  opening,  found  ourselves  in 
a  smooth  lake,  surrounded  by  hills,  with  no  appar- 
ent exit.  We  lay  still  till  morning  and  then  I  went 
ashore  with  the  purser.  The  town  is  surrounded 
by  hills,  barren  and  burnt,  as  if  volcanic  fires  had 
just  passed  over  them,  and  the  irregular  town  with 
many  cracked  and  ruined  edifices,  shows  traces  of 
the  late  earthquakes.  I^verything  is  parched,  the 
houses  of  one  story,  the  people  live  lazily  in  the 
shade  of  their  corridors.  We  shall  soon  be  off,  and 
1  shall  write  from  San  Francisco." 


"San  Francisco. 

"  My  dear  Mother, — I  arrived  here  on  Thursday 
evening,  March  24th.  We  had  fine  weather,  and 
a  fine  coast,  from  Acapulco  till  we  crossed  the  gulf 
of  California.  At  San  Diego  we  saw  American 
California;  shores  like  downs,  bare  of  all  but  grass, 
backed  by  high  hills,  sprinkled  with  snow.  The 
change  to  really  cold  weather,  mercury  45°  was  se- 
vere but  refreshing,  and  I  felt  new  life  wiien  I  could 
button  together  what  the  moths  of  Panama  have  left 
of  my  overcoat,  and  walk  the  deck  rapidly.  San 
Diego  is  desolate  and  uninteresting.  The  harbor, 
confined  with  sand  bars,  is  perfectly  land-locked. 
Approaching  Monterey,  the  coast  became  appar- 
ently more  fertile,  there  were  soma  trees,  princi- 


Mr.  24] 


SAJV  FRANCISCO. 


131 


pally  pines,  and  more  verdure,  the  hills  too  were 
iiigiier  and  finer  in  outline  and  the  rocky  points 
briilirint  with  Hurf.  Monterey  is  prettily  situated 
on  a  sweep  of  the  l»ay,  wooded  with  pines — a  green 
and  smiling  country  round  it,  with  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  spring.  But  the  coast  is  generally  bare, 
and  the  fertility  and  beauty  of  the  country  are 
said  to  be  behind  the  coast  range.  About  1  p.  m., 
on  the  24th,  we  began  to  see  the  Heads  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  Bay  of  San  Francisco.  There  had 
been  a  gale,  and  the  day  was  splendidly  clear  of 
the  fogs  that  beset  the  coast,  and  have  recently 
caused  the  loss  of  our  Steamship,  Tennessee.  The 
entrance  is  fine  indeed,  and  worthy  the  noble  bay. 
On  the  south  the  shore  is  barren  and  sand-hilly, 
with  a  certain  wild  look;  on  the  north,  the  cliffs 
come  precipitately  down  to  the  water,  and  the  en- 
trance is  somewhat  beset  with  rocks  that  are  cov- 
ered with  birds,  and  basking  seals.  After  the  first 
set  of  points,  the  coast  trends  inward  to  another 
set,  the  real  '  Golden  Gate,'  equally  bold  and  fine, 
and  about  as  wide  as  the  Narrows;  this  continues 
perhaps  two  miles,  when  you  begin  to  discern  the 
shipping  and  the  town,  creeping  round  the  point, 
and  the  whole  breadth  of  the  lake-like  bay  opens 
grandly  before  you.  The  effect  is  simple  in  its 
elements,  an  expanse  of  calm  water,  bounded  by 
sharply  defined  hills.  From  the  summits  over- 
looking the  town  you  have  striking  panoramic  views 
over  the  bay,  and  down  upon  this  wonderful  city, 
a  realization  in  rapidity  of  growth,  if  not  in  splen- 


M 


1  i*t 


132 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 


[1853 


I  I 


•  i  '. 


dov,  of  onr  fairy  tales.  On  arriving,  we  found  all 
the  paraphornnlia  of  civilization;  we  were  boarded 
hy  news  boats,  and  our  arrival  announced  by  tele- 
graphs. Firing  our  gun,  and  rounding  the  point, 
I  was  astonished  to  find  an  array  of  shipping  ap- 
I)arently  as  great  as  in  New  York.  Fine  ships 
were  lying  out  in  the  stream,  and  blocking  up  the 
crowded  wharves,  and  back  of  them  stretched  an 
extent  of  city  seeming  interminable,  and  exagger- 
ated by  the  evening  mist  and  smoke.  The  wharf 
and  steamers  alongside  were  tilled  with  people 
awaiting  our  arrival,  and  there  was  far  more  bus- 
tle, and  noise,  and  throng,  than  on  a  similar  occa- 
sion at  home.  In  fact  the  activity  of  this  place  is 
nppaUinc/.  The  original  town  was  built  upon  a 
narrow,  crescent-shaped  piece  of  ground  backed 
l^y  steep  hills,  but  as  it  extended,  the  hills  were 
cut  away,  and  the  water  filled  up,  till  our  ^ce, 
which  was  on  the  shore,  is  now  half  a  mi  om 
the  wharves.  But  they  could  not  fill  in  rapidly 
enough,  and  a  very  large  part  of  the  town  is  plank- 
ing, upon  piles.  But  further  in,  upon  terra  firma^  are 
broad  streets  and  substantial  edifices  of  brick  and 
stone,  of  good  appearance.  Everywhere  construc- 
tion and  destruction  are  going  on  together.  People 
f«re  generally  convinced  that  the  town  is  a  fixed 
fact,  and  are  making  their  arrangements  accord- 
ingly. The  hills  are  being  dug  down,  and  in  mak- 
ing a  call  yesterday,  I  found  the  easiest  method  of 
getting  away  was  to  plunge  down  a  sand  bank 
eight  feet  high.     It  is  indeed  a  most  astonishing 


■<   •<! 


iEr.  24] 


SA.V  FRANCISCO, 


133 


place,  ami  coining  from  the  poco  tlan/K)  of  Panama, 
the  contrast  was  striking.  Bnt  the  whole  thing 
appears  unsubstantial.  It  is  generally  agreed  that 
the  emplacement  of  the  town  is  by  no  means  the 
best,  and  there  are  persons  who  expect  that  the 
whole  will  be  abandoned,  and  Benecia,  or  some 
other  locality  chosen. 

"March  27th. 

"To-day  it  rains,  but  the  temperature  is  pleas- 
ant. The  two  previous  days  tine,  much  like  our 
October  weather.  It  suits  me  exactly.  San  Fran- 
cisco is  even  more  alive  by  night  than  by  day,  the 
shops  and  gambling  houses  in  full  blast;  with  night 
auctions  of  all  sorts  of  Jew-wares,  and  old  clothes 
and  new.  To-morrow  or  next  day  I  shall  go  to  Be- 
necia, and  perhaps  begin  my  little  journey  to  the 
mines,  and  peiliaps  home.  A  few  days  will  settle 
the  matter.  I  might  find  something  to  do  if  I 
staid  here.  I  cannot  think  of  anything  else  but 
how  to  get  on  respectably,  and  to  have  something 
better  than  my  miserable  life  for  the  past  two 
years.  Having  no  profession,  and  no  mercantile 
education  or  experience,  1  have  nothing  to  fall 
back  upon." 

"San  Francisco,  April  14th,  1853. 

"My  dear  Mother: — I  have  given  you  my  first 
impressions  of  San  Francisco.  My  second  corres- 
pond with  these  so  far  as  in  being  agreeably  dis- 
appointed in  the  town  and  its  surroundings.  In 
respect  to  mere  position  the  place  has  not  much  to 
boast  of.     It  began  upon  the  sandy  beach  of  a  cove 


I 


M 


I'. I 


1    'MJ 


■'    t 


134 


SAJV  FRANCISCO. 


[1853 


'ii  ' 


'  it 


in  the  bay,  at  the  foot  of  some  sandhills,  and  as  the 
city  progressed  they  cut  down  the  hills  and  threw 
the  sand  into  the  water,  making  a  flat  of  half  a 
mile  in  advance  of  the  old  front.  The  hills  that 
remain,  partly  excavated  above  the  town  are  bar- 
ren, and  scantily  covered  with  grass  and  stunted 
bushes.  The  prettiest  of  these  is  called  the  Cali- 
fornia lilac  {Ceanothus ?)  bearing  a  pretty  bluish 
flower,  delightfully  fragrant.  These  hills,  destined 
soon  to  fall  before  the  encroaching  city,  overhang 
it,  and  give  a  bird's  eye  view  of  its  rectangular 
plan  and  unfinished  appearance.  The  general  tone 
is  bricky  and  dusty.  The  prevailing  element  is  pul- 
verized sphere,  and  it  may  be  safely  called  the  dir- 
tiest place  in  tb  3  world.  A  single  day  will  trans- 
form it  from  a  slough,  navigable  only  in  a  pair  of 
gaft-topsail  boots,  to  an  ankle-deep  dustpan,  and 
when  you  consider  that  besides  the  immense  street 
traffic,  there  is  not  a  block  where  they  are  not  till- 
ing up  or  pulling  dowL,  you  may  imagine  that  the 
springy  plank  pavements  send  up  dust  as  thick  as 
a  London  fog.  But  the  same  hills  give  you  also 
views  beyond  this  waste,  across  the  quiet  waters 
of  the  inland  sea,  to  the  smooth  treeless  hills  that 
like  carefully  kept  green  pastures  surround  it.  The 
forms  of  these,  not  bold  or  picturesque,  are  grace- 
ful and  lovely  indeed,  and  in  this  atmosphere,  clear 
but  soft,  they  assume  a  richness  of  hue  that  re- 
minds me  of  the  shores  of  Greece.  In  this  land- 
scape there  are  no  picturesque  effects,  no  spots  or 
nooks  of  beauty,  its  grand  characteristic  is  breadth, 


r  :'ii 


^T.  24] 


BENECIA. 


135 


1 


outline,  panoramic  effect.  Along  the  southern  coast 
of  the  bay  the  same  forms  prevail,  but  the  soil  is 
richer,  and  now  in  spring,  they  are  either  beauti- 
fully green,  or  thickly  carpeted  with  flowers,  among 
which  the  golden  glow  of  tlie  escholtzia  is  con- 
spicuous. There  are  no  inclosures,  and  you  can 
ride  or  walk  where  you  like.  Most  of  the  flowers 
are  new,  but  I  find  my  old  favorite  the  Bartsia,* 
large  yellow  pansies,  and  lupines,  blue  and  white. 
I  spent  my  second  Sunday  at  Benecia,  where  there 
was  an  attempt  to  make  a  city  that  would  rival 
San  Francisco, — which  is  a  failure.  Some  persons 
interested  in  real  estate  persuaded  the  Pacific  Mail 
Steamship  Company  to  establish  its  depot  there, 
bribing  it  by  the  present  of  a  large  peat  bog. 
The  emplacement  of  the  town  is  good,  for  an  in- 
land one,  and  it  may  in  time  be  important,  but 
meanwhile  the  company  has  wasted  enormous 
sums  of  m  'uey  in  establishing  the  works  there, 
thirty  miles  from  San  Francisco.  The  steamboats 
that  ply  on  the  bay  are  as  complete  as  our  own. 
They  are  fast  and  explosive.  The  sail  up  the  bay 
at  evening  is  very  beautiful;  everything  on  a 
grander  scale  than  the  Bay  of  Panama.  Benecia 
lies  just  above  the  entrance  of  Suisun  Bay — which 
is  formed  by  the  junction  of  Sacramento  and  St. 
Joaquin  rivers,  on  the  slope  of  the  low  hills;  a 
straggling  town  without  a  tree.  The  bend  of  the 
river  here  is  very  beautiful,  and  the  opposite  bank, 
rising  abruptly,  and  sprinkled  with  low  trees,  looks 


41^ 


i 


•  Co^ixXltm  (Gray). 


136 


THE    GOLDEN   GATE. 


[1853 


like  a  park.  In  the  background  are  the  two  fine 
summits  of  Monte  Diabolo,  two  thousand  feet  high, 
distant  thirty  miles,  but  immediate  in  the  clear  air. 
The  water  of  the  river  is  muddy,  but  from  a  height, 
it  has,  when  the  sun  falls  upon  it,  a  pink  color, 
something  like  this  blotting-paper,  novel  to  me, 
and  pretty.  The  same  soft  hills  covered  with 
flowers  rise  above  the  town,  and  with  a  friend 
I  lay  basking  in  the  sun,  enjoying  the  view,  and 
thinking  that  this  part  of  California  at  least  was 
worthy  of  the  name." 

^^April  16th.  Last  Sunday  I  had  a  fine  long  walk 
down  the  bay — we  walked  about  fifteen  miles,  and 
collected  enormous  bunches  of  flowers.  The  sea- 
ward views  are  noble,  particularly  from  Fort  Point, 
one  of  the  heads  of  the  Golden  Gate,  where  the 
United  States  is  building  a  lighthouse.  Here  you 
look  near  two  hundred  feet  down  a  precipice. 
There  is  a  grand  beach  and  ocean  swell  outside, 
beyond  the  outer  heads  of  the  bay.  The  confor- 
mation of  some  of  these  sandhills  is  singular,  and 
in  some  places  they  sweep  away  inland,  advancing 
like  a  cataract  of  water,  smooth  and  softly  rounded 
to  the  top,  and  then  breaking  precipitously.  The 
weather  has  been  almost  perfect  since  my  arrival, 
exactly  the  thing  for  exercise,  making  me  regret 
my  tiresome  confinement  to  the  office,  and  urging 
me  to  terminate  it,  and  begin  my  wanderings. 
You  need  not  be  surprised  to  see  me  at  home  tow- 
ards autumn,  if  I  should  come  home  across  the 
plains,  or  by  Mexico." 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  WILDERNESS. 


D' 


"Portland,  Oregon,  April  29th,  1863. 

(EAR  MOTHER,— I  left  San  Francisco  on  Sun- 
day the  24th  April,  in  the  Columbia.  Outside 
the  bay  we  met  a  stiff  norvvester  that  made  me  sea- 
sick as  usual,  and  put  us  back  nicely.  The  steamer 
follows  the  coast  at  a  distance  of  from  three  to  tea 
miles.  The  shores  are  mostly  bold  and  harborless. 
The  coast  range  of  mountains  is  clothed  with  in- 
exliaustible  forests,  all  the  way  to  the  Columbia 
and  beyond,  and  already  the  lumber  trade  is  be- 
coming important,  both  along  the  coast  and  on  the 
Columbia,  where  numberless  sawmills  are  fast 
opening  little  breathing-holes  in  the  sunless  for- 
est. The  B\7('  of  the  red  wood  pines  is  almost 
fabulous.  W  hat  do  you  think  of  {>ne  here  at 
Portland,  ninety-six  feet  in  circumlerence,  one  at 
Humboldt  fifty-five  feet  in  diameter,  and  one  three 
hundred  and  thirteen  feet  long.  Hce  at  Portland, 
more  than  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  from  the 
sea,  ships  are  freighted  with  spars  and  timbers  for 
China.  For  ages,  Oregon  will  supply  lumber  to 
the  Pacific  world.  These  dee}>  me  woods  give  a 
gloomy  look  to  the  coast.    The  shores  are  bold  and 


ii 


«  H 


t\ 


138 


THE    PACIFIC    COAST. 


[1853 


,f  -i 


li 

ii 


■;    li 


dangeroTis,  and  the  sea  roars  and  dashes  heavily 
on  the  outlying  rocks.  We  stopped  in  the  night  at 
Port  Oxford,  where  is  a  small  military  post.  Some 
of  the  headlands  are  precipitous  and  striking.  The 
.  bar  at  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia  is  a  very  dan- 
gerous one,  and  even  crossing  with  the  most  fa- 
vorable wind  and  tide,  the  swell  and  roar  of  the 
breakers  was  grand.  Passing  this  you  enter  a  spa- 
cious estuary,  inclosed  between  a  low  piny  point 
and  a  high  wooded  bluff,  and  to  the  south  end- 
ing in  a  clear  green  spot;  an  old  battle-ground  of 
the  Indians.  You  look  out  upon  a  beautiful  ex- 
panse of  water,  surrounded  by  low  mountains, 
black  with  pines,  in  the  distance,  and  more  than 
one  hundred  miles  inland,  the  superb  cone  of  St. 
Helen's,  one  of  the  noblest  of  snowy  mountains,  is 
a  crown  to  the  view.  The  river  at  this  point  is 
very  grand  and  solitary,  worthy  of  being  the 
great  stream  of  the  Pacific  coast.  Proceeding,  you 
bend  to  the  right,  and  find  in  a  small  cove,  the 
few  houses  of  Astoria.  The  situation  is  not  fitted 
for  a  town,  and  the  anchorage  and  channel  will 
hinder,  if  not  prevent,  its  becoming  the  site  of  a 
great  place,  such  as  must  arise  at  this  mouth  of 
the  Columbia.  Just  above  is  a  pretty  promontory 
called  Tongue  point,  on  the  technical  left  bank  of 
the  river,  with  bays  above  and  below,  and  com- 
manding its  whole  sweep  Five  miles  or  so  brings 
you  to  the  real  course  of  the  stream,  from  one  to 
three  miles  in  width.  As  it  narrows,  some  bold 
basaltic  clifts  rise  above  in  three  terraces  with  deep 


^T.  24] 


THE    COLUMBIA. 


139 


1 


A 


^ii 


Is 


I 


'\\ 


\ 


water  at  the  base,  and  covered  with  thick  firs. 
The  opposite  banks  are  low,  with  deciduous  trees 
in  their  fresh  spring  foliage.  Two  or  three  little 
threads  of  cascades  fall  down  the  cliff.  The  scen- 
ery all  along  is  of  a  similar  character,  wild  and  im- 
posing, as  the  course  oi'  a  great  river  should  be. 
The  first  stopping-places  are  nothing  more  than  a 
house  and  a  sawmill.  Opposite  the  mouth  of  the 
Cowlitz,  a  village  called  Kanier  is  growing  up. 
At  this  point  the  grand  peak  of  St.  Helen's  came 
out  brilliantly  against  the  sky.  It  is  a  rounded 
cone,  of  which  you  see  nothing  but  the  snowy  sum- 
mit, one  third  of  the  mountain,  above  surrounding 
ranges.  It  is  a  volcano,  and  still  occasionally 
smokes.  At  the  town  of  St.  Helen's,  the  course 
of  the  river  brings  the  peak  exactly  opposite,  and 
in  full  view  across,  a  grand  object  for  perpetual 
admiration.  The  clouds  hid  the  others,  Mt.  Hood 
and  Mt.  Ranier,  from  view.  St.  Helen's,  which 
has  now  about  thirty  houses,  is  at  the  proper  head 
of  navigation  for  large  ships,  and  is  likely  to  be- 
come the  important  point.  Here  the  bank  is  a 
rock  of  basalt  of  twenty  feet  high,  affording  an  ad- 
mirable locality  for  a  town  and  port.  One  mouth 
of  the  Willamette  comes  in  here.  From  this  point 
it  became  too  dark  to  see.  Portland,  up  the  Willam- 
ette, the  farthest  point  to  which  vessels  of  any 
size  can  go,  struggles  along  the  bank  of  the  river, 
a  thriving  place  of  fifteen  hundred  people.  Above, 
the  river  becomes  shallow,  and  there  are  bad  rapids, 
only  passable  by  small  steamers.     There  is  a  very 


i 


I 


.»!'• 


',   I 


w 


140 


OREGON. 


[1853 


large  trade  up  the  river,  but  the  sooner  they  have 
good  roads,  to  escape  navigation,  the  better." 


ii 


"Portland,  Oregon,  April  29th,  1853. 

"Dear  Sister, — It  was  a  very  natural  thing  for 
me  to  have  gone  to  California,  when  on  the  Pacific 
coast,  but  coming  here,  to  a  country  once  so  much 
more  thought  of  than  California,  and  of  late  so  little 
in  comparison,  has  a  different  effect.  Oregon  still 
seems  distant  from  the  old  United  States,  and  there 
is  a  feeling  of  grandeur  connected  with  the  forests, 
the  mountains,  and  the  great  continental  river  of 
this  country  that  belongs  to  nothing  in  the  land 
of  Gold.  The  Columbia,  as  I  have  said  before,  is  a 
most  imposing  river  in  its  lower  course,  a  great  broad 
massive  stream,  whose  scenery  has  a  breadth  and  a 
wild  powerful  effect  every  way  worthy  of  it.  It 
will  be  cultivated  worthily  also,  and  some  thousand 
years  hence,  the  beauty  of  its  highly  finished  shores 
will  be  exquisite,  backed  by  the  snow  peaks.  There 
is  a  heartiness  and  rough  sincerity  impressed  upon 
people  by  the  kind  of  life  they  lead  in  new  coun- 
tries. An  easy  hospitality  given  and  received 
without  much  ceremony  is  a  thing  of  course.  The 
prices  are  so  high  that  ail  the  old  ideas  of  economy 
are  thrown  aside.  Money  is  easily  made  and  freely 
spent.  A  dollar  is  absolutely  nothing.  All  the 
men  of  the  country  are  young,  and  almost  all  pros- 
perous. The  population  on  the  whole  is  perhaps 
not  of  the  most  valuable  kind,  consisting  largely 
of  the  successors  of  the  pioneers,  a  sort  of  semi- 


l» 


^T.  24] 


OREGON'. 


141 


civilized  race  who  have  not  the  intelh'gence  or  en- 
ergy of  a  real  farming  people,  but  are  half  nomad 
still,  without  much  local  attachment.     The  very 
bad  land  system,  formed  to  prevent  speculation, 
has  prevented  investment  in  land  by  settlers  who 
could  not  wait  till  a  residence  of  four  years  upon  a 
spot  gave  them  ownership,  or  of  two  the  privilege 
of  purchase.     At  present,  no  one  not  living  upon  a 
spot  of  land  can  possess  it;  there  are  no  titles  even 
to  house  lots  in  towns.     The  prosperous  people  are 
the  farmers  of  cattle  and  produce,  who  live  princi-. 
pally  upon  the  valley  of  the  Willamette.     Every- 
thing they  can  raise  meets  a  ready  market  and 
high  prices.     It  is  the  paradise  of  farmers.     Lum- 
bering also  is  lucrative,  store-keeping,  and  manual 
labor  of  all  kinds.     There  must  always  bo  a  marked 
difference  between  the  character  of  this  people  and 
the  Californians.     In  a  few  minutes,  when  I  get  a 
little  colder,  I  will  turn  in  between  the  blankets  of 
my  host,  who  has  a  large  country  store  here.     On 
the  whole,  I  will  turn  in  now.     Good  night. 

"T.  W." 


■^i: 


'«! 


!'. 


"April  30th. 

"  My  plans  are  quite  grand  for  a  tour  in  these  re- 
gions till  my  money  is  all  gone.  On  the  steamer, 
coming  here,  I  met  quite  a  character,  a  pioneer  of 
this  country,  with  all  the  typical  qualities  of  the 
class.  Born  in  Kentucky,  educated  as  a  surveyor, 
and  passing  the  earlier  part  of  his  life  on  the  fron- 
tier, he  moved  to  this  country  fifteen  years  ago  in 
the  first  emigration,  took  up  a  whole  claim,  and  by 


1 


^ 


■' 


i?! 


li 


142 


VANCOUVER. 


[1853 


the  sudden  colonization  of  the  country,  finds  him- 
solf  a  rich  man.  He  is  rough  and  backvvoodsy,  but 
lias  the  real  love  of  nature  and  freedom,  with  a 
tinge  of  romance.  I  am  off  across  the  plains,  and 
may  return  home  that  way.  Hurrah  for  freedom 
and  a  wild  life!!  T.  W." 

"  Vancnwer,  }Vnxhington  Territonj,  May  Ist,  1853. 

"My  DEAR  Mother, — I  arrived  here  from  Portland 
yesterday.  The  distance  is  eight  miles  by  land, 
sixteen  by  water.  I  got  a  pony  and  lashed  him 
for  a  moment  to  a  wheelbarrow  which  he  found  so 
tempting  that  he  dashed  off,  dragging  it,  and  de- 
tained me  till  he  was  caught.  Vancouver  is  the 
headquarters  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Co.  as  well  as 
of  the  U.  S.  Army  for  Oregon  and  Washington 
Territories.  It  is  upon  the  right,  or  north  bank 
of  the  Columbia,  six  miles  above  the  Willamette. 
Having  been  long  settled  by  the  Company,  they 
have  cleared  a  large  space  of  land,  taken  out  the 
stumps,  and  given  to  the  broad  meadow  on  the 
river  bank,  the  beautiful  smoothness  of  an  English 
lawn.  There  is  a  belt  of  fine  trees  along  the  river, 
and  behind  the  ground  rises  in  a  gentle  terrace  to 
the  U.  S.  Barracks.  Below,  upon  the  flat,  are  the 
stockades  and  buildings  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Co. 
When  the  Indians  were  dangerous,  these  stock- 
ades were  necessary,  but  now  their  tribes  have 
dwindled  away  into  total  insignificance.  Back 
of  all  is  the  deep  pine  forest,  with  some  fine  outly- 
ing trees.  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Gen. 
Hitchcock  to  the  commanding  officer,  Col.  Bonne- 


"■^ 


^T.  24] 


VANCOUVER. 


143 


:  '- 


ville,  who  received  me  very  kindly,  and  gave  me 
quarters  in  his  house,  and  I  was  soon  at  home  with 
all  the  officers.  I  had  also  a  letter  to  Gov.  Ogden 
of  the  H.  B.  Co.,  a  British  subject,  all  his  life  in 
the  service,  who  looks  like  an  old  gray  lion.  I 
had  intended  to  stop  and  go  up  the  Columbia 
only  as  far  as  the  Cascades  and  the  Dalles,  but  I 
found  that  Capt.  Brent  with  a  small  party  of  men 
was  going  np  to  Fort  Hall  and  thence  to  Salt  Lake 
and  to  return  thence  to  California,  and  I  decided 
to  go  with  them  as  a  most  excellent  chance.  The 
Hon.  Mr.  FitzWilliam,  a  young  Englishman  of  my 
own  age  is  also  of  the  party,  on  his  way  across  the 
plains,  and  we  shall  travel  as  pleasantly  as  possible. 
Capt.  Brent  is  on  government  service,  and  we  shall 
see  some  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  less 
visited  Indian  country.  I  have  not  yet  decided 
whether  to  go  on  wii  FitzWilliam  across  the 
plains  and  report  to  you,  .  a.  St.  Louis,  or  return  to 
California.  Most  likely  the  latter.  We  shall  travel 
expedite,  and  be  about  thirty  days  from  the  Dalles 
to  Salt  Lake,  where,  if  sufficient  inducement  offers, 
I  shall  turn  Mormon.  Once  off,  you  may  not  hear 
from  me  for  a  long  time,  but  you  need  have  no 
anxiety,  as  we  travel  with  perfect  security,  in  the 
good  season.  I  expect  to  gain  health  and  strength 
enough  to  last  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  should  come 
of  course  straight  on  with  F.  W.,  but  I  have  left  all 
my  traps  in  California,  and  seen  nothing  of  that 
country,  not  even  the  mines.  However,  qiiien 
sahe?     I  shall  rap  the  old  knocker  at  your  door 


i 


li 


I 

I 


144 


r//^  DALLES. 


[1853 


about  the  end  of  July,  in  a  flannel  shirt  and  buck- 
skin breeches.     Yours,  T.  W." 

"Dalles  of  the  Columbia,  May  10th,  1853. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  wrote  you  last  from  Vancou- 
ver. We  left  there  on  Monday  morning  in  the  lit- 
tle steamer  Multnomah.  At  4  p.  m.  we  reached 
the  landing  at  the  foot  of  the  rapids  in  the  midst 
of  the  Cascade  Mountains.  These  mountains  are 
of  trap  formation  and  present  bold  crags  and  pre- 
cipitous fronts.  The  scenery  had  already  been 
bolder  and  wilder  than  any  river  I  had  seen, 
and  it  became  more  and  more  singular  and  strik- 
ing. I  have  only  time  for  a  line.  These  moun- 
tains are  from  one  thousand  five  hundred,  to  four 
or  five  thousand  feet  high,  and  the  great  river 
forces  its  way  through  them  in  a  wild  pine-clad 
gorge  for  sixty  miles.  We  encamped  at  the  land- 
ing, and  next  day  took  the  luggage  of  the  party 
up  to  the  foot  of  the  principal  rapid  in  small  boats, 
where  we  portaged  them  on  a  rude  tram-road. 
The  company  being  large, — Capt.  Brent's  party, 
with  one  hundred  days'  provisions,  and  Capt  Wal- 
ler's company  of  infantry,  with  baggage,  ammuni- 
tion, caissons,  etc., — the  process  occupied  two  entire 
days,  till  we  got  on  board  a  flat  boat.  It  was  nav- 
igated by  two  ignorainij  and  we  had  to  stop  and 
cut  a  big  steering  oar  in  the  woods.  It  blew  a  gale 
— our  flat  came  very  near  being  wrecked,  which 
would  have  been  awkward  with  sixty  men  on 
board,  and  we  put  into  port  about  seven  miles 
up,  where  we  encamped  and  had  a  pleasant  time. 


Mt.  24] 


T//£   DALLES. 


145 


Next  morning,  with  scenery  growing  still  wilder, 
we  went  up  stream,  the  strong  wind  helping  our 
crazy  craft  to  struggle.  About  noon,  we  put  into 
port  again,  waiting  for  the  wind  to  fall,  and  I  had 
time  to  climb  a  mountain  and  see  the  course  of  the 
river.  We  got  away  in  tlie  afternoon,  and  camped 
out,  twenty  miles  up,  in  a  splendid  place.  The 
tents  and  numerous  camp-fires  made  the  woods 
and  crags  most  animated.  Many  pretty  cascades 
came  tumbling  into  the  river.  On  the  third  day  we 
reached  tlie  Dalles,  and  were  most  hospitably  en- 
tertained at  the  Barracks,  I  being  quartered  with 
Major  Alvoord,  to  whom  I  had  a  letter.  The  cam- 
paign thus  far  has  been  delightful,  with  a  pleasant 
and  lively  set  of  officers,  and  all  the  excitement  of 
a  small  military  expedition.  We  find  that  there 
need  be  no  apprehensions  about  the  Indians.  The 
Cascades  of  the  Columbia  are  rapids,  not  falls,  but 
very  picturesque.  Here  at  the  Dalles,  the  river  is 
drawn  into  a  narrow  compass  between  walls  of  trap, 
about  forty  feet  high,  and  at  the  Dalles  proper,  is 
confined  in  a  space  of  about  eighty -five  yards;  I 
will  visit  that  to-day.  We  start  into  the  wilder- 
ness in  two  or  three  days;  everything  propitious,  the 
party  most  harmonious.  You  will  not  hear  from  me 
for  a  long  time." 

"Portland,  Oregon,  June  13th,  1853. 

"Dear  Mother, — ^ Vhomme  propose.  Dieit  dis- 
pose!^ Never  more  true!  I  made  my  prepara- 
tions to  return  across  the  plains,  and  reached 
the  Dalles,  as  I  have  written  you,  but  went  no  fur- 


tt^i 


146 


ILLNESS. 


[1853 


ther.  There  I  had,  very  mildly,  the  small  pox, 
wliich  I  probably  caught  from  a  friend,  whom  I 
visited  in  Portland  at  the  moment  when  the  dis- 
ease was  most  infectious.  He,  poor  fellow,  had  it 
terril)ly  in  the  confluent  form,  but  with  me,  the 
fever  was  slight,  and  the  eruption  has  left  almost 
no  traces,  so  that  you  vould  not  notice  that  I  had 
had  the  malady.  The  lay  after  I  wrote  you,  in 
fact  that  WQvy  day  1  hati  a  slight  attack  of  fever, 
so  that  I  was  hardly  able  to  keep  my  saddle  in  a 
ride  we  took  to  the  Dalles,  and  on  returning  I  felt 
so  ill  as  to  lie  down.  I  was  quartered  with  Major 
Alvoord,  who  commanded  the  post,  and  on  the 
disease  pronouncing  itself,  he  gave  up  his  room  to 
me  and  camped  out.  From  him  and  all  the  other 
officers,  as  well  as  Dr.  Summers,  I  received  every 
kindness  and  sympathy,  though  of  course  they 
had  to  avoid  me.  I  am  still  anxious  lest  I  should 
have  given  the  complaint  to  some  of  them.  It 
has  been  very  virulent  here,  the  Indians  dying  in 
crowds — almost  always  fatal.  With  me,  except 
the  slight  irritation  caused  by  the  eruption,  the 
illness  was  nothing;  the  chief  discomfort  was  the 
idea  of  having  a  dangerous  malady,  and  the  fear 
of  giving  it  to  others.  Of  course  I  was  very  much 
disappointed  in  not  being  able  to  go  with  Brent 
and  FitzW.  The  party  would  have  been  perfect. 
They  waited  a  week,  but  could  delay  no  longer. 
In  about  three  weeks  I  was  pronounced  safe,  and 
left  my  confinement  with  no  other  symptom  than 
an  all-grasping  appetite.     When  I  was  well  enough 


\ 


i-.\ 


«( 


^T.  24] 


D/SA  PPOfXT.WiNT. 


147 


\ 


to  travel,  it  was  useless  to  untlertake  to  overtake 
my  party,  so  I  determined  at  least  to  deter  the 
trip.  The  country  about  the  Dalles  is  desolate 
and  wild  in  the  extreme,  and  sad  must  be  the 
disappointment  of  the  emigrants,  who  arrive  there 
in  the  autumn  when  every  green  thing  is  parched, 
themselves  way-worn,  their  wealth  of  cattle  become 
poverty — half  starved  and  almost  hopeless.  I^ut  the 
beauty  of  Oregon  is  further  on,  and  if  the  rest  of  the 
Willamette  and  the  adjoining  valleys,  corresponds 
with  what  I  have  seen,  Oregon  is  one  of  the  loveli- 
est places  on  earth.  While  I  was  ill,  the  Columbia 
rose  enormously  with  its  regular  «June  flood  from  the 
melting  snows.  This  made  a  diiferrnce  of  thirty 
feet  in  the  water  level,  and  the  country  below 
Vancouver  is  now  a  vast  lake.  The  narrow  chan- 
nels of  the  Dalles  were  filled  almost  to  the  brim 
and  the  R.ipids  almost  obliterated.  At  the  Dalles, 
the  river  is  confined  in  three  narrow  rifts  in  the 
rook,  the  widest  only  sixty  feet,  the  others  almost 
jumpable.  The  diff'erence  of  level  between  high 
and  low  water  is  sixty  feet.  It  must  be  wilder  and 
stranger  when  the  river  is  low.  There  is  nothing 
beautiful  except  the  grandeur  of  the  mighty  rushing 
torrent  mass.  The  barracks  are  on  a  hillside,  scant- 
ily wooded,  with  a  noble  view  of  Mt.  Hood,  always 
magnificent  with  its  unsullied  snows,  and  just  at 
the  angle  of  the  Columbia  below,  the  rounded 
cone  of  Mt.  Adams  fills  up  the  gap  of  the  range. 
These  snowy  summits  are  all  isolated,  not  forming 
the  beautiful  ranges  of  the  Alps — they  rise  singly 


U 


:.Mi 


){<! 


•'  .1 


If 


148 


THE   DALLES. 


[1853 


:      » 


'      h 


I    1  t 


and  apart,  and  it  is  only  at  a  certain  elevation  that 
you  command  more  than  one  or  two  at  a  view.  As 
single  peaks,  all  are  very  tine,  but  I  have  not  yet 
seen  any  really  picturesque  high-mountain  scenery. 

"At  the  Dalles,  when  I  was  there,  high  disagree- 
able winds  came  down  over  the  mountains,  mak- 
ing the  weather  chilly  when  the  mercury  stood  at 
90*^.  This  wind  prevails  during  the  summer  on  the 
whole  course  of  the  Columbia.  After  I  was  con- 
valescent, I  took  several  long  rides  over  the  hills, 
treeless  and  only  scantily  covered  with  grass, 
and  with  many  flowers,  some  of  them  pretty  and 
peculiar 

"I  left  the  Dalles  on  June  4th,  in  one  of  the  H.  B. 
Co.'s  boats  carrying  furs,  collected  during  the  win- 
ter by  a  fine  specimen  of  a  highlander  who  has 
charge  of  Fort  Coleville,  followed  by  a  fine  tail  of 
half-breeds  and  Indians  with  one  picturesque  old 
whitcrheaded  Canadian,  of  whom  1  bought  a  noble 
pair  of  buckskin  pantaloons.  The  free  life  that 
these  men  lead  in  the  wilderness  has  great  charias 
for  me.  We  had  a  pleasant  trip  down  the  River, 
floating  almost  fast  enough,  though  the  Indians 
pulled  like  good  fellows.  We  stopped  several  times 
for  them  to  "muck  or  muck,"*  which  they  are 
ready  fc.r  f 'ty  times  a  day.  Soon  after  noon  we 
reached  the  Cascades,  and  making  the  portage, 
while  the  lightened  boat  shot  the  Rapids,  got 
away  on  the  lower  river.  The  rise  of  the  water 
had  changed  the  look  of  things — a  house  where 
we  had  slept  was  up  to  the  second  story  in  water. 

•  To  €(U,  in  Cbiiiook. 


^T.  24] 


THE    COLUMBIA. 


149 


The  evening  was  most  lovely.  At  nightfall  the 
Indians  all  went  to  sleep  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
and  we  floated  rapidly  down  stream  all  night,  by 
starlight,  dozing  in  our  blankets.  At  4  a.  m.  we 
landed  at  Vancouver,  where  I  was  kindly  received 
again  by  Gov.  Ogden,  and  had  plenty  of  condolence 
for  my  illness.  The  flood  had  been  very  destruc- 
tive to  the  crops,  and  the  whole  of  the  lovely 
meadow  was  a  great  lake.  The  officers  of  Van- 
couver are  pleasant  company,  and  the  H.  B.  Co. 
live  in  solid  comfortable  style,  with  plenty  of  good 
beer.     I  enjoyed  my  final  convalescence. 

"The  Indians  of  the  Columbia  are  a  miserable 
race,  living  on  salmon  and  roots.  The  fishery  at 
the  Cascades  is  fabulously  productive,  and  the 
lodges  for  drying  the  richly  colored  fish  are  really 
curiosities.  The  fish  are  caught  iu  a  scoop  net, 
•which  an  Indian — standing  on  a  framework,  built 
over  the  most  rapid  spots — sweeps  down  against 
the  stream,  till  he  catches  his  quantum.  I  have 
seen  them  take  four  or  five  splendid  fish  in  as 
many  minutes.  The  whole  world  lives  upon  Sal- 
mon till  it  is  tired  of  it.  .  .  .  With  my  say  half 
said.     Yours,  T.  W. 

"  My  plans  are  unformed  as  yet  after  my  forced 
return  to  Oregon,  and  I  don't  know  what  route  I 
shall  take  to  get  home." 

"  Scottsbunjf  l/mpqtia  liiver,  June  28tlj,  1853. 

*'  My  letters  come  to  you  Irom  places  you  never 
heard  of  perhaps,  but  of  more  or  less  im})()rtance 
in  this  growing  country.     This  is  a  town  just  cut 


i' 


m 


m 


1  H 


w 


II 


•! 


150 


THE    VVIL  LAME  TTE. 


[1853 


out  of  the  woods,  rough  enough  in  appearance,  and 
almost  inaccessible  at  times,  but  a  large  business 
is  done  here.  It  is  one  of  the  principal  points  of 
supply  fur  the  North  California  and  Oregon  mines, 
and  for  a  large  and  beautiful  farming  country  on 
the  upper  Umpqua  Kiver.  Leaving  Portland,  I 
followed  up  the  Willamette  valley.  The  scenery 
is  lovely.  Of  the  Kiver  I  did  not  see  much,  as  it 
Hows  between  banks  thickly  wooded  with  firs,  the 
deep  black  woods  of  the  country,  but  the  valley  is 
composed  of  bcmtiful  smooth  prairies,  sprinkled 
with  belts  of  heavy  timber,  or  open  groves  of  oaks. 
This  is  the  general  character  of  the  country — smooth 
grazing  meadows,  suitable  for  any  kind  of  farming. 
The  plains  are  broken  by  frequent  water-courses, 
and  you  can  hardly  go  a  mile  without  finding  a 
brook,  or  spring.  On  one  side,  the  coast  range 
closes  the  view,  a  rough  and  rather  desolate  chain, 
on  the  other,  the  Oiscade  Mountains — higher  and 
more  distant — defined  by  the  great  snow  peaks 
rising  almost  isolated,  and  nearly  at  regular  inter- 
vals— so  much  higher  are  they  than  the  main 
range.  From  many  spots  and  slight  elevations,  I 
could  see  several  of  these  peaks,  far  off  on  the  hor- 
izon. From  one  hill  near  Salem,  I  could  see  seven 
of  them.  At  this  great  distance  nearly  two  hun- 
dred miles,  the  smooth  rounded  cone  of  St.  Helen's 
is  particularly  fine,  rising  as  if  at  once  from  the 
plain,  superbly  defined  against  the  sky  in  the  blue 
distance.  Looking  at  these  peaks  so  far  off,  they 
are  even  more  imposing  than  a  connected  range, 


(1 


Mt.  24] 


OREGOhr 


151 


and  I  have  seen  few  more  striking  views  than  that 
one  near  Salem,  where  the  eye  coukl  command  all 
of  them,  and  a  vast  expanse  of  plain  and  forest, 
sprinkled  with  cultivated  spots,  and  backed  by 
hills  and  the  far  chains  of  the  Mountains.  It  is 
the  part  of  the  world  to  live  in  !  Most  of  the  val- 
ley being  open,  excellent  roads  were  made  merely 
by  driving  wagons  over  the  grass  till  a  track  is 
worn,  and  to  a  traveler  on  horseback,  progress  is  very 
easy.  The  donation  law,  giving  to  every  family 
settled  before  1849,  a  section  of  land,  and  to  every 
single  man  a  half  section,  has  strung  along  cabins 
at  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  so,  with  their  little  spots 
of  cultivation,  but  in  general,  the  wide  plains  are 
grazed  by  herds  of  the  finest  cattle.  The  stock 
here  is  exceedingly  good,  the  best  alone  support- 
ing the  journey  across,  and  being  improved  by  it, 
and  by  the  excellent  pastures  of  the  country. 
Though  the  Willamette  valley  is  not  very  wide, 
each  of  the  small  streams  which  flows  into  it  has 
its  own  little  spot  of  smooth  verdure  in  the  forest, 
with  a  supply  of  tine  oak  and  fir  timber  for  the 
cabins,  and  a  rill  of  water  flowing  by  the  door. 
Labor  is  dear,  and  the  prices  of  provisions  high.  The 
old  farmers  found  themselves  suddenly  rich  on  the 
discovery  of  gold,  and  became  lazy,  consequently 
nothing  has  been  done  to  develop  the  country  in 
proportion  to  its  resources.  Many  of  the  settlers 
are  half-breeds  and  (Canadians  of  the  H.  B.  Co.,  and 
there  is  one  extensive  district  called  the  French 
Prairie,  where  you  naturally  call  for  a  glass  of 


i   ^ 


tl 


'% 


11 

II 


; 

i  .f 


I 


i 


162 


OREGON. 


[1853 


water  in  that  language.  A  few  Indians  remain, 
but  they  are  lazy  and  good-for-nothing,  and  the 
salmon  fishing  makes  them  comparatively  rich. 
In  the  lower  country  they  are  more  powerful  and 
dangerous.  I  bought  a  fine  American  mare,  and 
started  one  morning  up  the  Willamette  River. 
The  short  interval  between  the  farm-houses  makes 
it  always  possible  to  get  something  to  eat,  and  if 
there  is  a  lady  of  the  house,  she  is  always  captivated 
by  talking  of  the  trip  across  the  plains,  which  al- 
most all  the  Oregon  women  have  made.  You 
turn  your  horse  into  the  rich  pastures,  and  take  a 
nooning  under  the  trees,  or  a  bath  in  some 
living  brook.  In  the  forests,  the  fern  is  usually 
breast  deep.  The  weather  has  been  delicious,  the 
heat  bearable  except  at  noon,  the  nights  cool 
enough  for  blankets.  My  first  night  brought  me 
to  Salem,  the  present  capital,  a  village  of  less  than 
one  thousand  people,  on  one  of  these  exquisite 
plains.  The  streets  are  wide,  and  the  original  oak 
trees  have  been  left  about.  Mount  Hood  is  every- 
where in  plain  sight.  My  second  day  carried  me 
through  a  region  of  equal  beauty,  to  Marysville,  the 
head  of  high-water  steam  navigation  on  theWillam- 
ette,  on  another  tine  plain,  where  the  coast  range 
comes  nearer.  Whenever  one  has  hit  on  a  good 
site  for  a  town,  his  next  neighbor  starts  a  rival  one, 
so  that  there  are  often  two  settlements  within  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  open  warfare — if  you  buy  a 
lot  in  one,  you  lose  the  good  opinion  of  everybody 
in   the   other.      I   stopped   the   third   night  at  a 


^1 


^T.  24] 


OREGON. 


153 


farmer's — a  backwoodsman  enriched  by  the  mines, 
and  not  even  taking  trouble  to  milk  his  cows,  ex- 
cept for  the  household.  Rough  enough  some  of 
these  rich  farmers  are — Pike  County  men,  as  they 
say, — who  have  fallen  into  pleasant  places.  My 
fourth  night  I  was  to  have  spent  at  the  house  of 
an  acquaintance,  but  I  missed  it,  and  as  it  was  a 
splendid  night,  I  turned  my  horse  to  graze,  and 
finding  a  nice  oak  grove,  made  a  tine  fire  in  a 
hollow  tree,  and  a  capital  bed  with  my  blankets  and 
saddle  cover;  ate  two  soda  biscuits,  and  when  I  was 
tired  of  admiring  the  light  of  the  full  moon,  turned 
in  for  the  night.  Next  morning  I  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  shake  myself,  saddle  and  ride  to  Youcalla, 
to  my  friend's  house  to  breakfast.  He  was  one  of 
the  emigration  of  '43,  and  is  a  man  of  remarkable 
intelligence  and  energy,  who  looks  like  a  back- 
woodsman and  thinks  like  the  most  cultivated. 
He  has  nearly  confirmed  my  intention  of  settling 
in  this  country.  His  farm  is  meadow,  completely 
encompassed  by  hills  covered  with  grass,  serving 
as  a  range  for  the  cattle  that  form  his  wealth." 

"Fort  Vancouver. 

**  I  wish  I  had  time  to  describe  to  you  my  trip 
to  Scottsburg,  with  my  sail  down  the  Umpqua,  to 
the  mouth,  my  journey  up  the  river,  by  another 
route  to  Winchester,  whence  want  of  time  prevented 
me  from  going  to  the  mines.  I  returned  another 
way,  down  the  left  bank  of  the  Willamette,  through 
the  beautiful  Yamhill  country,  diverged  across  the 
Tualtin  plains,  and  the  Ikapoose  mountain  to  the 


i! 


.  «. 


■: 


ii  i 


154 


PORTLAND. 


[1853 


town  of  St.  Helen's  on  the  Columbia,  and  stopped  to 
ascend  the  Chehallis  mountain  whence  there  is  a 
noble  panorama  of  the  plains  and  snow  peaks, 
worthy  of  the  Alps.  If  I  had  a  home,  a  wife,  and 
something  to  fix  me  to  a  local  habitation,  I  should 
most  certainly  establish  myself  here  in  Oregon. 
But  until  then,  I  shall  probably  be  a  rolling  stone. 
I  believe,  if  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  stay  here, 
I  could  have  a  small  fortune  in  six  months.  I  am 
now  at  the  Hudson's  Bay  Co.,  where  I  am  always 
at  home,  and  find  it  pleasant.  I  have  never  felt 
better.     I  close  in  Portland,  in  splendid  weather." 

"  PorOand,  July  12th,  1863. 

"  My  dear  Brother  : — I  wish  that  you  could  see 
the  great  brick  of  these  parts.  Governor  Ogden  of 
the  Hudson  Bay  Co.,  and  other  minor  bricks  of  the 
same — certainly  the  nicest  set  of  men  whom  1  have 
had  the  good  fortune  to  know,  free  and  hospitable, 
full  of  fun  and  good  sense.  This  Oregon  is  a  noble 
country !  The  summer  climate  almost  perfection, 
and  the  winter,  though  rainy,  not  severe  or  dis- 
agreeable. It  oflFers  a  grand  field  for  a  man  who 
is  either  a  world  in  himself,  or  who  can  have  his 
own  world  about  him.  There  are  very  few  educa- 
ted or  enlightened  men  here,  so  that  one  might 
want  society,  yet  any  man  who  unites  sense  to 
education  can  do  anything  he  pleases.  It  would 
take  but  little  to  induce  me  to  give  up  the  old 
country  and  live  here,  but  my  unhappy,  unsettled 
disposition  is  always  in  the  way.     Look  me  up  a 


JEx.  24] 


rUGET  SOUND. 


155 


charming  young  woman,  who  has  no  objection  to 

a  red  beard,  and  can  do  anything,  from  preaching 

to  dancing  the  polka,  from  making  a  cocktail  to 

running  a  steam-engine,  marry  lier  by  proxy  and 

lock  up  till  demand.     Boston  is  said  to  be  a  good 

place,  so  look  out  for  me  there.     If  I  return  this 

summer,  it  will  be  with  the  intention  of  coming 

out  again  with  a  plan,  formed  on  my  knowledge 

of  the  country. 

"T.   W." 


h 


■ill 


le 


IS 


;o 


a 


•'  Fort  NUqudlly,  Puget  Sound,  July  23d,  1863. 

*'  Dear  Mother, — I  am  still  on  the  move  as  you 
see.  Who  knows  where  I  shall  stop  ?  My  last  was 
from  Vancouver.  We  went  down  the  river  that 
morning  in  a  small  steamer  that  deposited  us  at 
Monticello,  among  the  mosquitoes.  Next  day  we 
went  up  the  river,  thirty  miles  in  a  canoe,  with 
four  Indians  to  paddle ;  the  stream  flows  through 
dense  forests,  buzzing  with  mosquitoes ;  very  rapid 
current,  and  slow  progress.  The  Indian  lodges  of 
the  better  class  are  entirely  above  ground,  built 
of  boards,  with  bunks,  mats,  blankets,  and  other 
comforts,  according  to  the  wealth  of  the  owner. 
All  understand  the  Chinook  jargon — the  most  com- 
ical of  all  languages,  if  it  can  be  called  one, — con- 
taining words  from  most  languages,  and  answering 
to  the  Pigeon  English  of  the  Chinese.*  At  Cowlitz, 
the  head  of  navigation,  we  spent  a  tedious  day  wait- 
ing for  horses,  until  the  next  evening,  when  we 
rode  eight  miles  to  Jackson's  prairie,  passing  the 
•  See  Vocabulary  in  •♦  Canoe  and  the  Saddle. " 


i  ; 


i! 


(1 
M 


l\\ 


it 
i 


I 


156 


PUGET  SOUND, 


[1853 


Hudson's  Bny  Co.*s  beautiful  farms  there,  rich  with 
ripe  grain.  Over  the  trees  that  belted  the  river, 
nearer  than  ever  rose  graceful  St.  Helen's,  and  now 
first  clearly  seen,  the  immense  bulk  of  Ranier,  the 
most  massive  of  all — grand,  grand  above  the  plain ! 
Mr.  Jackson  is  an  old  settler  and  has  a  splendid 
farm.  All  the  scanty  population  is  alive  with  hopes 
and  questions  about  the  great  Railroad,  and  the 
exploring  parties,  and  every  man  is  certain  that 
it  must  come  through  his  place.  Next  morning, 
rode  through  a  country  of  cedar  trees.  Stop  and 
noon  at  Ford's,  and  then  in  the  cool  of  the  hottest 
of  days  ride  till  midnight  by  moon — fifty-two  miles 
to  Olympia.  Four  miles  from  Ford's  are  the  mound 
prairies — spotted  with  small  mounds — at  first  just 
distinguishable — becoming  as  we  go  on  fifty  feet 
in  diameter  and  ten  to  fifteen  feet  high,  covering 
an  immense  extent  of  country.  The  mound  prairie 
is  marked  by  a  mound  of  another  class  fifty  feet  or 
much  more  in  height,  almost  perfectly  regular, 
with  some  large  trees  on  it.  A  Yankee  has  built 
a  house  on  the  apex,  and  means  to  make  a  nursery 
of  fruit  trees  on  its  fertile  sides.  About  eleven 
p.  M.  the  roar  of  a  cascade  announced  our  arrival  at 
Olympia,  at  the  head  of  the  Sound.  We  could  just 
see  a  pretty  little  fall,  a  mill,  and  the  great  expanse 
of  the  Sound.  A  few  houses  make  Olympia  a  thriv- 
ing lumbering  village,  cleared  from  the  woods,  with 
stumps  in  the  main  street.  Plenty  of  oysters  and 
large  queer  clams.  Puget  Sound  here  terminates 
in  a  point,  spreading  below  to  a  great  lake  with 


ll 


Mt.  24] 


OREGON^. 


157 


low  banks,  thick  with  firs.  Tide  rises  nearly  twenty 
feet,  water  clear — low  tide  leaves  a  great  mud  flat 
below  the  place.  Stopped  a  day.  I  was  with  Capt. 
Trowbridge,  who  had  come  to  make  tidal  observa- 
tions on  the  Sound.  Next  day  we  started  in  a  noble 
clipper  of  a  canoe  for  Steilacoon,  the  U.  S.  Fort. 
Paddled  along  against  tide.  Indians  took  it  easy — 
shot  a  duck  and  a  pole  cat — pulled  up  a  gigantic 
purple  star-fish — made  a  vocabulary  of  the  Inoo- 
squamish  language.  Had  a  jolly  time — splendid 
sheet  of  water  with  islands  and  nooks  of  bays. 
Mt.  Ranier  hung  up  in  the  air.  Landed  nine  p.  m., 
walked  two  miles  through  the  woods  to  the  Bar- 
racks— waked  an  officer — supper,  and  bed.  To-day 
walked  to  Fort  Nisqually — a  Hudson's  Bay  Co. 
farm  and  station.  Dr.  Tolmie  in  charge — going  to 
Vancouver's  Island  to-morrow,  invited  me  to  go, 
probably  shall  and  join  the  other  party  there. 

"These  disjointed  words  were  written  by  vio- 
lent effort  in  a  small  house,  with  mercury  at  90°  F. 
With  best  love  to  all,  and  assurances  of  reasonable 
well  being,    Yours, 

"T.  W." 

"Ticioriat  Vancouver^^  Itland,  Aug.  16th,  1852. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  can  hardly  represent  to  my- 
self the  summer  life  at  home,  the  dusty  streets, 
quenched  by  an  occasional  shower,  to  the  joy  of 
the  party  assembled  in  the  porch,  just  out  of  reach 
of  the  sprinkles;  the  delicious  evenings,  just  cool 
enough  to  restore  after  the  sultriness  of  the  glar- 


i 


! 


si 


i:  < 


I 


158 


wrr.D  UFE. 


[1853 


ing  day,  with  open  windows  and  music,  or  a  moon- 
light walk;  the  crush  of  Commencement,  the  after 
calm.  A  year  passed  without  a  winter  seems  to 
have  no  right  to  a  summer,  and  I  am  hardly  con- 
scious of  its  having  come  and  gone.  The  weather 
just  now  is  like  a  New  England  October,  the  days 
warm  and  cloudless,  but  the  nights  so  cool  that 
two  blankets  do  not  come  amiss.  A  heavy  smoke  . 
from  the  burning  woods  casts  a  haze  over  every- 
thing, as  in  our  Indian  summer.  The  arm  of  the 
sea  upon  which  Victoria  is  looks  beautiful  in  the 
sunny  afternoon,  with  the  smoke  just  obscuring 
the  rocky,  too  barren  shores,  and  veiling  the  white 
houses  of  the  village. 

"Since  I  last  wrote,  I  have,  besides  cruising 
about  the  Island,  seeing  the  points  and  the  settle- 
ments, taken  a  trip  '  er  to  tlie  American  shore  to 
the  coal  mines  on  Bellington  Bay.  I  took  a  large 
clipper  canoe,  and  five  Indians,  with  one  wife,  and 
provisions,  etc.,  and  started  one  fresh  blowing  morn- 
ing when  they  thought  it  something  of  a  risk  to 
go.  It  looked  rather  squally  at  first,  but  I  soon 
got  confidence  in  my  vessel,  which  went  nobly 
over  the  heavy  swells,  just  on  the  safe  side  of  dan- 
ger— the  Indians  highly  excited  as  the  seas  struck 
her.  We  crossed  a  somewhat  dreaded  traverse  be- 
tween this  and  a  neighboring  island,  and  then  gen- 
tly glided  along  among  the  smaller  islands  of  the 
archipelago.  Everywhere  the  Indians  were  salmon 
fishing,  sometimes  with  a  small  flat  net,  extended 
between  two  large  canoes,  and  sometimes  singly,  in 


i! 


Mt.  24] 


W/LD  LIFE. 


159 


great  fleets  of  little  canoes,  trolling  with  the  line  fas- 
tened to  a  paddle.  My  Indians  were  of  the  Nook 
Lnmmi  tribe,  and  were  in  good  spirits,  us  they 
were  going  to  visit  their  friends.  Like  all  on  that 
coast,  they  were  a  careless,  jolly,  happy  race,  amus- 
ing themselves  with  jokes  and  me  with  songs,  some 
of  which  were  pretty  and  original.  1  tried  to  write 
down  the  notes  of  one,  and  on  laying  down  my 
paper,  one  of  them  with  a  most  quizzical  look,  pre- 
tended to  be  able  to  sing  it,  the  rest  roaring  with 
laughter.  Towards  evening  we  landed  in  a  deep, 
quiet,  solitary,  tarn-like  cove,  walled  in  by  rocks 
and  overhung  by  great  pine  trees.  As  the  canoe 
entered,  thousands  of  ducks  rose  from  the  water, 
and  flew  screaming  about;  but  the  door  was  shut 
by  the  canoe;  when  we  fired,  the  whole  place  was 
alive  with  echoes.  As  we  landed,  a  young  Indian 
stepped  on  the  cover  of  a  box  and  split  it;  where- 
upon the  owner  of  the  box  and  he  became  '  silex ' 
or  in  the  sulks;  the  former  wrapped  himself  up  in 
his  blanket  toga,  like  the  dying  Caesar,  and  lying 
down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  refused  to  be  com- 
forted; neither  of  them  would  eat  anything,  like  a 
pair  of  pouting  children.  After  a  while  they  re- 
laxed, and  were  very  glad  to  get  some  prog  that 
was  put  away  for  them.  It  was  a  capital  evening, 
and  my  kibobs  of  fresh  mutton  relished  amazingly. 
Then  in  the  dim  twilight  we  floated  on,  some  pad- 
dling and  some  sleeping,  and  made  the  destined 
shore  about  midnight.  Next  morning  I  found  that 
by   some   misunderstanding   (tremen.    long   word 


I, 

ill 


I  i: 


,!l 


i  I 


l! 


1 


! 


160 


WILD  LIFE, 


1853] 


that)  we  had  come  to  tlie  wrong  part  of  the  Bay, 
or  rather,  were  not  in  the  Bay  at  all.  Our  course 
then  was  inland,  up  a  good  sized  river,  thickly 
shrouded  with  almost  tropical  vegetation.  Pres- 
ently we  came  to  an  Indian  salmon  weir,  a  high 
framework  of  poles  reaching  across  the  stream,  and 
serving  also  as  a  light  foot  bridge — at  intervals, 
wicker-work  shields  are  suspended  in  the  water, 
and  just  against  them,  baskets,  like  a  lobster  pot; 
the  salmon,  rushing  up  stream,  is  met  by  the  shield, 
and  turning,  falls  into  the  pot.  This  fishery  be- 
longed to  one  of  my  men,  and  as  we  came,  an  In- 
dian was  just  taking  a  noble  salmon  out;  we  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  to  breakfast,  and  such  a 
kettle  of  fish!  of  which  a  mighty  portion  was  first 
served  out  to  me,  sitting  in  state  on  a  mat-covered 
dais,  in  a  hut  neither  clean  nor  well  ventilated. 
Hurrah  for  savage  life !  " 

*'Dall€»,  Aug.  Slst.  1853. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  arrived  here  to-day  across  the 
mountains  from  Nisqually,  after  an  adventurous 
and  rather  arduous  journey  of  several  days,  in  the 
course  of  which  I  was  pretty  much  thrown  on  my 
own  resources — my  Indian  guide  having  left  me 
to  shift  for  myself  in  the  middle  of  a  great  prairie. 
I  have  no  time  to  give  a  full  account.  I  arrived 
to-day,  and  start  to-morrow  for  Salt-Lake  with  the 
mail  carriers,  and  shall  leave  there,  Oct.  1st,  for 
home,  likewise  with  the  mail.  Write  me  to  St. 
Louis,  so  that  I  shall  have  news  on  my  arrival. 


^T.  24] 


RETURN. 


161 


I  i 


No  falHe  start  this  time,  I  hope !  I  am  in  much 
luiHte  to  make  my  preparationH  for  tlie  morrow. 
Captain  Brent  has  just  returned,  and  gives  me  an 
excellent  account  of  his  trip." 

Here  for  a  time  the  letters  cease,  and  the  reader 
must  be  referred  to  the  pages  of  "  The  Canoe  and  the 
Saddle,"  which  contains  Theodore  AVinthrop's  own  ac- 
count of  this  wild  journey  across  the  Cascade  Moun- 
tains, with  some  notes  upon  the  Dalles  and  their 
legends,  and  a  very  amusing  vocabulary  of  the  be- 
wildering Chinook  Jargon,  which  is  a  true  confusion 
of  tongues.  One  of  the  legends  is  a  weird  reproduc- 
tion in  Indian  folk  lore  of  the  tale  of  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
a  story  so  old  and  universal  that  it  might  have  been 
told  by  the  shores  of  Atlantis.  Another  relates  some 
of  those  wonderful  and  supernatural  leaps  across  chasms 
such  as  we  always  hear  of  in  mountain  countries.  The 
volume  also  contains  a  sketch  of  life  in  the  Isthmus, 
which,  like  the  other  sketch,  was  written  and  thrown 
aside  (a  fragment  perhaps  of  some  larger  plan,)  and 
never  prepared  for  publication.  It  seems  fitting  to 
close  this  period  of  his  life  with  his  own  words. 

"So,  on  the  morrow,  I  mounted  a  fresh  horse,  and 
went  galloping  along  on  my  way  across  the  con- 
tinent. With  my  comrades,  a  pair  of  frank,  hearty, 
kindly  roughs,  I  rode  over  the  dry  plains  of  the 
upper  Columbia,  beyond  the  sight  of  Mt.  Hood  and 
Tacoraa  the  less,  across  eTohn  Day's  river  and  the 
Umatilla,  day  after  day,  through  throngs  of  emi- 
grants with  their  flocks  and  their  herds  and  their 
little    ones  in    g^reat   patriarchal    caravans,   with 


1/ 


iili 


'  \\ 


162 


THE    CANOE   AND    THE    SADDLE. 


[1853 


their  white-roofed  wagons  strewed  over  the  sur- 
ging prairie,  like  sails  on  a  populous  sea,  moving 
away  from  the  tame  levels  of  mid  America  to 
regions  of  fresher  and  more  dramatic  life  on  the 
slopes  toward  the  Western  sea.  I  climbed  the 
Blue  Mountains,  looked  over  the  lovely  valley  of 
the  Grande  Ronde,  wound  through  the  stern  defiles 
of  the  Burnt  River  Mountains,  talked  with  the  great 
chiefs  of  the  Nez  Perces  at  Fort  Boisee,  dodged 
treacherous  Bannacks  along  the  Snake,  bought  sal- 
mon and  otter  skins  of  the  Shoshonees  at  the 
Salmon  Falls,  shot  antelope,  found  many  oases  of 
refreshing  beauty  along  the  breadth  of  that  desolate 
region,  and  so,  after  much  adventure,  and  at  last 
deadly  sickness,  I  came  to  the  watermelon  patches 
of  the  Great  Salt  Lake  valley,  and  drew  recovery 
thence.  I  studied  the  Utah  landscape.  Oriental, 
simple  and  severe.  I  talked  with  Brother  Brigham, 
a  man  of  very  considerable  power,  practical  sense 
and  administrative  ability.  I  chatted  with  the 
buxom  thirteenth  of  a  Boss  Mormon  and  was  not 
proselyted.  And  then,  in  delicious  October,  I  has- 
tened on  over  the  South  Pass,  through  the  buffalo, 
over  prairies  on  fire  quenched  at  night  by  the  first 
snows  of  autumn.  For  two  months  I  rode,  with 
days  sweet  and  cloudless,  and  every  night  I 
bivouacked  beneath  the  splendor  of  unclouded  stars. 
And  in  all  that  period,  when  I  was  so  near  to  Nature, 
the  great  lessons  of  the  wilderness  deepened  into 
my  heart  day  by  day,  the  hedges  of  conventionalism 
withered  away  from  my  horizon,  and  all  the  ped- 


iil 


Mt.  25] 


ST.    LOUIS. 


163 


antries  of  scholastic  thought  perished  out  of  my 
mind  forever." — ("Canoe   and   Saddle."     Finis.) 

Here  then  was  a  turning-point  in  Wiuthrop's  career, 
or  at  least  in  his  mental  experience,  and  one  of  which 
he  was  himself  conscious,  if  not  at  the  moment,  at 
least  not  long  after.  Few  records  of  this  time  can  be 
found  in  letters  and  journals,  but  the  seed  sown  then 
bore  abundant  fruit  upon  the  pages  of  "  John  Brent." 

At  St.  Louis  he  stojDped  awhile  with  kind  friends  and 
relatives,  and  enjoyed  the  society  of  his  classmate  and 
dear  i'riend  Henry  Hitchcock,  who  had  settled  there — 
a  nephew  of  Gen.  Hitchcock,  U.  S.  A.  Tliis  visit  to 
St.  Louis  had  much  influence  upon  his  future  life,  and 
movements.  He  has  often  spoken  of  his  delight  in 
being  with  his  friends  once  more  and  among  culti- 
vated people  and  lovely  women.  About  this  time  his 
mind  began  to  be  full  of  the  visions  (A'  authorship,  or 
rather  the  visions  he  had  always  hud  began  to  take 
form  and  to  become  plans.  On  his  retin-n  home,  at  a 
white  heat  with  the  excitement  of  his  adventurous 
journeys,  he  began  to  write  or  sketch  out  many 
things,  some  of  which  afterward  arranged  themselves 
into  permanent  shapo  It  is  impossible  tc.  fix  the  dates 
of  these  first  ideas.  Many  of  them  doubtless  darted 
into  his  mind  as  he  galloped  over  the  great  plains, 
or  through  the  tangled  tropic  forests,  and  otliers  were 
long  seething  in  his  brain,  before  anytliing  was  put 
upon  paper.  He  was  at  Salt  Lake  City  on  Sept.  28tli, 
1853,  and  returned  home  on  Nov.  28tli,  stopping  at 
Fort  Bridger,  and  staying  awliile  at  ibe  hospitable 
Fort  Laramie,  where  his  visit  is  still  talked  of,  and 
the  house  where  he  lived  pointed  out.     The  pictures 


\)> 


I  )!.! 


.  k 

i: 


I' 


4 


Ml 


i 


i 


i 

Si 

! 


I 
I 


164 


POEMS. 


[1853 


of  that  journey,  live  upon  liis  pages  of  after  days — the 
Indian,  the  settler,  the  lonely  fort,  the  slow  moving 
caravan,  the  Mormon  fanatic.  Some  of  his  poems 
belong  to  this  period,  and  are  full  of  reminiscences  of 
the  Plains,  such  as  these. 

MOONLIGHT. 

Dreamy,  dreamy  moonlight  over  plain, 

Over  river  softly  shifting  light; 
Dreamy  dark,  the  forest  mountain  chain 

Marks  glimmering  outlines  on  the  night. 

Dreamy  hopes  of  unimagined  bliss 
Breathe,  passing  into  mournful  sighs. 

Breezes  whisper  hopes  of  happiness; 
Catch  the  sweet  murmur  ere  it  dies  1 

Brief,  oh  too  faintly,  sadly  brief, 

Fitful  dreams  drifted,  drifted  on, 
Swift  as  the  flicker  of  a  leaf, 

Shook  glancing  hope  and  then  were  gone ! 

Stay,  tender  dreamy  moonlight  peace ! 

Queenly  calmness,  sweep  along  my  sky ! 
Day  blasts  me,  action  will  not  cease, 

March  we  must,  ever  wearily ! 

March  we  will,  true  men  will  be  true  1 

Yet  in  our  harsh  and  bitter  days. 
Sweetly  pausing  moments  will  renew 

Gleams  of  these  soothing  moonlight  rays. 

Never  fairer,  dim  dreamy  world ! 

Banners  of  man's  hostile  daylight  strife 
Droop  listless,  all  peaceful  furled. 

Sweet  grows  the  fi'iendliness  of  life. 


^T.  25] 


POEMS. 


165 


FOREST  FIRE. 

Oh !  glorious  comrade !  how  we  welcomed  him ! 
The  broad  and  friendly  glow,  the  smile,  the  laugh, 
The  speaking  sparkles.     Not  a  moment  still, 
But  merrier  than  gayest  merriment. 
And  startling  oft,  as  thoughts  seize  flame  and  live, 
Live  in  the  soul,  till  gloom  falls  utterly. 
Welcome,  divine  one !  banquet  brilliantly, 
Feast  thou,  the  festal  hero !  now  we  stand 
Most  willing  servitors.    Be  lavish  long — 


FIRE  UP! 


'% 


Revelry!  revelry! 
O !  might  my  soul  be  like  a  flame ! 

Making  gloom  glory, 
To  engulf  with  light  the  shame 

Of  a  world's  daik  story  I 

Oh  splendor,  brilliancy  1 

Shout  with  me  victory ! 
Suddenly  victor,  one  flash, 

And  circles  shrinking, 
Of  night  from  that  patriot  dash, 

Nightward  are  sinking. 

Reveh'y !  revelry  I 
Yes,  noble  knight,  thou  hast  won  I 

Take  thy  grand  pleasure. 
Mantle  witli  splendor  the  dim, 

Lavish  thy  treasure ! 


i  J 


•  - 


u 


166 


FRAGMENTS. 


[1853 


i 


1? 


PI     1 


Fading,  soon  fading  1 
Torture  as  keen  will  be  thine, 

When  dyin^  ilame  lashes 
Its  death  for  one  fleeting  shine, 

Then  sinks  to  ashes. 


PROSE  FRAGMENT. 

{Siqypoiied  Fragment  of  a  Tale.) 

Out  of  the  forest  on  fire,  on  to  the  plain,  the  wide 
plain  sweeping  up  to  the  swelling  hills,  restless  surg- 
ing hills,  tending  to  limitless  horizons  beyond  the  edge 
of  the  world,  I  came  alone,  off  from  the  snow  peaks, 
down  across  the  piny  mountains.  The  chill  wind 
blew,  bringing  dismal  snow  squalls  from  the  wintry 
sky,  a  torn  angry  sky,  frowning  upon  the  flaming 
woods.  Hot  blasts  came,  mingled  with  cold  snow- 
flakes.  Alone  and  objectless  I  went.  I  passed  the 
hills,  utterly  cold,  cold  as  my  heart,  and  came  among 
the  desolate  rocks  over  the  river,  desolate  as  the 
world's  end — black  volcanic  rocks.  And  the  river  had 
fled,  and  was  ever  flying,  bursting  in  agonized  strug- 
gles through  the  harsh  rocks !  Alone  and  hopeless  I 
rode.  Why  should  I  struggle  further.  Let  me  die 
here,  of  cold  and  despair.  I  mounted  the  last  hill, 
vast  swelling  hill,  broad  curving  hill,  brown  with 
parched  grass  that  died  long  ago  when  there  was 
summer,  and  looked  upon  the  valley  of  Death,  worse 
than  death,  of  no  life,  lone  and  horrible  as  a  deserted 
hell.  Here  let  me  starve  and  die.  I  looked  my  last 
upon  the  ice  peaks,  that  leagues  upon  their  further 


.^^T.  25] 


FRAGMENTS. 


167 


side,  looked  on  the  vales  of  my  youth  and  peace,  be- 
fore I  murdered  all  my  hopes,  and  went  wandering — 
haunted — 


'*! 


h.'l 


FRAGMENTS— DAWN. 

Dawn  glimmers  through  the  forest  edge  of  plains, 
The  thinly  crisping  waves  gleam  with  faint  light, 

Singly  the  stars  are  captured,  as  day  gains 

Its  upward  marches.     Shivering  Hies  the  night. 

Broad  golden  dawn  above  a  waste  of  snow, 
Showers  of  gold  upon  a  glittering  field, 

As  when  a  peerless  lady  smiles  her  love 
On  her  true  knight  who  wears  a  silver  shield. 

Then  a  bold  sunrise.     Mists  fall  down  and  drift 
Low  on  the  earth,  as  doubts  desert  the  sky 

WTien  the  old  darkness  of  the  world  is  rift 

To  brave  youth,  looking  with  hope-Hghted  eye. 


i 


W 


,  t 


H! 


t  s 


FRAGMENTS. 

'Tis  the  wild  battle,  'tis  the  crashiiig  charge 
The  shout  of  victory  the  maddened  shout 
The  ecstatic  agony  of  victor  death. 


1    >■! 


it 


Down  the  valhsy  we  came  at  a  run. 
Sunset  behind  and  the  water  before, 

Wild  hills  beside  us  one  by  me; 

We  could  race  with  night  but  a  moment  more. 


'} 


168 


FRAGMENTS. 


[1853 


;! 


\ 


A  stony  valley !  skeletons  lay 

Where  weary  cattle  bad  sunk  to  death; 
Ghastlier  seemed  the  twilight  gray, 

Drearier  night  drew  over  the  heath — 


Men  have  called  Death  the  relentless,  a  Reaper, 
But  too  hasty,  he  gathers  unripened  his  grain, 

Or  himself  stern  and  fleshless,  cares  not  for  his  harvest, 
And  strides  with  delight  o'er  a  desolate  plain. 

Sorrows  are  servants  of  Death,  not  so  daring. 
As  they  stay  the  fresh  hopes  our  bright  comrades 
of  life. 

And  the  soul  stands  as  lonely  as  in  a  burned  forest 
Uprises  a  pine  tree,  unscorched  from  the  strife. 


"  A  bounding  gallop  is  good 

Over  wide  plains; 
A  wild  free  sail  is  good 

'Mid  gales  and  rains; 
A  dashing  dance  is  good 

Broad  halls  along, 
Clasping  and  whirling  on. 

Through  the  gay  throng. 
But  better  than  these, 
When  the  great  lakes  freeze, 
By  the  clear  sharp  light, 
Of  a  starry  night. 
O'er  the  ice  spinning, 


/Et.  25] 


/^:ASr  AA'D    WEST. 


1G9 


i 


With  a  long  free  sweep, 
Cutting  and  ringing, 
Forward  we  keep ! 
Or  round  and  around. 
With  a  Kharp  clear  sound, 
To  fly  hke  a  fish  in  the  sea, 
Ah,  this  is  the  sport  for  me ! 

•  ••»•• 

{Printed  in  St.  Nicholas,  Jan.,  1880.) 


ir 


nil 


THE  EAST  AND  THE  WEST. 

{Printed  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1863.) 

We  of  the  East  spread  our  sails  to  the  sea, 

You  of  the  West  stride  over  the  land. 
Both  are  to  scatter  the  hopes  of  the  free 

As  the  sower  sheds  golden  grain  from  his  hand. 

'Tis  ours  to  circle  the  stormy  bends 
Of  a  continent,  yours  its  ridge  to  cross; 

We  must  double  the  capes  where  a  long  world  ends. 
Lone  cliffs,  where  two  enemy  oceans  toss. 

They  meet  and  are  baffled  'mid  tempest  and  wrath; 

Breezes  are  skirmishing,  angry  winds  roar, 
While  poised  on  some  desperate  plunge  of  our  path 

W^e  count  up  the  blackening  wrecks  on  the  shore. 

And  you,  through  dreary  and  thirsty  ways 
Where  rivers  are  sand,  and  winds  are  dust, 

Through  sultry  nights  and  feverish  days 
Move  westward  still,  as  the  sunsets  must. 


I     <1 


-1 


u 


ii 


II 


170 


EAST  AND    WEST. 


[1853 


I 


Where  the  scorched  air  quivers  along  the  slopes, 
Where  the  slow-footed  cattle  lie  down  and  die, 

Where  horizons  draw  backward,  till  baffled  hopes 
Are  weary  of  measureless  waste  and  sky. 

Yes!  ours  to  battle  relentless  gales. 
And  yours  the  brave  and  the  patient  way; 

But  we  hold  the  storms  in  our  trusty  sails. 
And  for  you,  the  life-giving  fountains  play. 

There  are  stars  above  us,  and  stars  for  you, 
Kest  on  the  path  and  calm  on  the  main; 

Storms  are  but  zephyrs  when  hearts  are  true : 
We  are  no  weaklings,  quick  to  complain, 

When  lightnings  flash  bivouac  fires  into  gloom. 
And  with  crashing  of  forests  the  rains  sheet  down; 

Or  when  ships  plunge  onward  where  night  clouds 
loom. 
Defiant  of  darkness,  and  meeting  its  frown. 

These  are  the  days  of  motion,  and  march; 

Now  we  are  ardent,  and  young  and  brave; 
Let  those  who  come  after  us  build  the  arch 

Of  our  triumph,  and  plant  with  the  laurel  our  grave. 

Time  enough  to  rear  temples  when  heroes  are  dead; 

Time  enough  to  sing  paeans  after  the  fight; 
Prophets  urge  onward  the  future's  tread; 

We — we  are  to  kindle  its  beacon  light  I 

Our  sires  lit  torches  of  quenchless  flame. 
To  illumine  our  darkness,  if  night  should  be, 

But  day  is  a  friend  to  our  standards,  and  shame 
Be  ours,  if  we  win  not  the  victory  I 


Mt.  25] 


£^S7'  AND    WEST. 


171 


Man  is  nobler  than  men  have  been, 

Souls  are  vaster  than  souls  have  dreamed, 

There  are  broader  oceans  than  eyes  have  seen. 
Noons  more  glowing  than  yet  have  beamed. 

Creeping  shadows  cower  low  on  our  land: 
These  shall  not  dim  our  grander  day; 

Stainless  knights  must  be  those  who  stand 
Full  in  the  van  of  a  world's  array ! 

When  shall  we  cease  our  meager  distrust  ? 

When  to  each  other  our  true  hearts  yield? 
To  make  this  world  an  Eden,  we  must 

Fling  away  each  weapon  and  shield, 

And  meet  each  man  as  a  friend  and  mate; 

Trample  and  spurn  and  forget  our  pride. 
Glad  to  accept  an  equal  fate, 

Laboring,  conquering,  side  by  side  1 


I 

ill 


'  m; 


I; 


i 


I 


I 

I 

f 

M 


A 


CHAPTER  VI. 


DARIEN. 


AGAIN  the  noble  and  prophetic  images  of  a  soldier's 
life  and  an  early  death  arise  in  his  mind,  but  only 
as  apt  thoughts  and  fancies,  not  at  all  as  presentiments. 
His  mind  was  too  healthy  for  presentiments,  yet  the 
constant  use  of  these  metaphors  seems  singular — after 
the  fact.  But  even  thoughts,  visions,  or  preparations 
for  authorshiji,  could  not  quench  the  thirst  for  adven- 
ture that  was  not  yet  assuaged  in  his  heart.  The  white 
heat  was  not  yet  cooled,  nor  was  the  fire  indeed  ever 
burned  out.  He  received  an  offer  to  join  the  Darien 
Expedition,  under  Lieutenant  Strain,  to  prospect  for 
a  ship  canal  across  the  Isthmus.  His  friend  Mr.  As- 
pinwall  was  desu'ous  to  have  him  go,  in  order  that  the 
facts  regarding  the  possibility  of  the  route  might  be 
well  understood.  The  Panama  R.  R.  Co.  could  not 
well  be  in  favor  of  any  other  route  tlvm  their  own 
across  the  Isthmus  at  that  time,  and  was  .  aturally  de- 
sirous to  know  if  any  other  was  practicable.  But  it 
was  for  the  adventure  and  the  experience  of  the  thing, 
more  than  for  any  other  reason,  that  Theodore  Win- 
throp  started  again  on  a  voyage  at  the  end  of  Decem- 
ber 1853,  having  been  little  more  than  a  month  at  home. 

"New  York,  Dee.  1863. 

"Deak  Mother, — I  am  off  again  once  more  for 
the  tropics,  as  a  volunteer  in  the  U.  S.  Commission 


Mr.  25] 


r/M"    CW-fATE. 


173 


for  Survey  of  tho  proposed  canal  ronto  acroRs  tho 
iHtlimuR  of  Darien,  sixty  miles  or  so  to  the  Honth 
of  Panama.  As  a  volunteer  I  get  no  pay,  but  have 
all  my  expenses  paid.  We  sail  on  Monday  in  tlH» 
sloop-of-war  CyftnCj  Captain  IloUins.  Lieutenant 
Strain  is  the  ship  engineer.  M\  few  minutes  con- 
versation with  him  shows  him  to  be  a  gentlennvn. 
The  way  of  it  was  this:  I  heard  incidentally  at  the 
Panama  R.  R.  office,  that  there  was  an  agent  hero 
on  the  part  of  tlie  British  Company  for  the  canal, 
and  called  upon  him  to  inquire,  ending  by  offer- 
ing my  services,  should  the  thing  be  carried  out. 
He  also  told  me  that  the  Cyane  had  not  sailed,  and 
after  thinking  over  the  matter,  I  went  back  and 
told  him  I  should  like  to  go  down  in  her.  We  met 
Mr.  Strain,  and  the  arrangement  was  made  in  two 
minutes.  They  were  very  glad  to  have  me  go,  and 
I  do  so  with  especial  reference  to  future  employ  in 
their  Company.  I  wish  you  would  come  down  to- 
morrow and  see  me  before  I  go.  I  shall  be  at  very 
little  expense — a  few  flannel  shirts.  Don't  fail  to 
come.  My  pla<^e  is  that  of  any  officer  employed  in 
the  Expedition,  except  that  I  shall  have  no  respon- 
sibility, and  no  pay.  We  shall  be  gone  about  three 
months.     It  is  the  most  favorable  season." 


I'i 


<<  i 


I 


\\ 


"U.  S.  Slonp-nf.War  Cyane,  \ 
'Mona  Passage,  Jan.  Ist,  1854. 1 


"Ten  knots  an  hour  down  the  N.  E.  trades,  shel- 
tered under  a  sail  from  the  sun  of  the  tropic:-;,  a 
fresh  cool  breeze  following  fast,  a  brilliant  sea  with 
sparkling  foam-crests,  a  clean  ship,  with  black  con- 


1^ 


! 


^^^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


■  2.2 


U2  1^ 

S   1^    12.0 


iJ£ 


ll'-2^lll'-^U4 

< 

— . ^//    

► 

Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corpor^on 


SI  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

V¥.%ltSTER,N.Y.  14S80 

(716)S72-4S03 


^>" 


■ 


;V 


174 


THE    CYANE. 


[1854 


trast  of  battery,  j)lenty  of  sailor  life  strev  ed  over 
the  decks  in  Sunday  rig,  a  dim  outline  of  Hayti 
on  the  starboard  quarter,  hopes  of  Cartagena  in  a 
few  days, — these  are  the  pleasures  of  our  New 
Year's  day,  and  go  to  counterbalance  the  minor 
discomforts  of  our  sea  life.  Its  outset  was  not  so 
agreeable.  The  second  day  we  thrust  ourselves 
into  a  Hatteraa  hurricane,  and  I  passed  the  second 
miserable  night  of  my  life.  Lying  loose  upon  the 
wet  floor  of  the  Wardroom,  suffering  agonies  of 
seasickness,  conscious  that  a  most  fearful  gale  was 
blowing,  and  we  might  be  wrecked;  with  rushes 
of  water  pouring  down  all  the  hatches,  as  the  big 
seas  washed  fore  and  aft,  I  half  died,  till  we  pitched 
and  rolled  out  of  trouble,  and  all  there  was  to  trouble 
had  been  pitched  and  rolled  out  of  me.  Thence- 
forward w^e  had  better  fortune.  The  marrow-chill- 
ing cold  of  our  first  days  gave  place  to  warmth. 
Warmth  is  now  heat,  till  I  am  conscious  that  cravats 
are  only  a  martyr's  sacrifice  to  northern  civilization, 
and  regret  that  my  stock  of  thin  coats  will  be  half 
out  when  this  one  is  dirty.  Being  supernumeraries 
on  board  a  man-of-war,  where  there  is  no  room  to 
spare,  our  party  of  ten  has  to  take  up  with  very 
scanty  accommodations,  but  we  manage  to  bring 
into  play,  'the  more  the  merrier,' — we  rough  it 
really,  in  fare  as  well  as  space,  but  have  always 
fine  weather  and  a  clear  deck,  with  the  run  of  the 
officers'  quarters.  Captain  HoUins  is  a  rough  sort 
of  jolly  customer.  The  Lieutenants  I  find  all  good 
bellows. 


M-r.  25] 


SEA    LIFE. 


175 


"Jan.  2d. 


'*  The  magnificent  weather  continues.  We  have 
a  glorious  breeze,  and  sail  nobly  away,  hoping  to 
make  one  of  the  shortest  passages  on  record  to 
Cartagena.  On  deck  the  air  is  delicious,  but 
below  very  hot.  Life  on  board  a  man-of-war  is 
much  more  varied  than  on  a  passenger  ship.  Ex- 
ercising at  the  guns,  ir.spections,  and  the  general 
discipline  of  a  ship's  company  of  two  hundred  men 
break  completely  upon  any  possible  monotony. 
We  have  gone  so  fast  and  so  favorably,  that  we 
have  had  no  time  to  be  bored.  To-day  we  have 
awnings  spread,  and  lie  about,  chatting  on  the 
decks.  I  dined  with  the  Captain,  and  sat  all  the 
evening,  having  a  very  pleasant  time.  He  has 
seen  a  great  deal  of  service,  beginning  on  board 
the  FremhnU  and  was  in  the  action  when  she  was 
captured  by  the  British  squadron.  The  last  few 
days  have  been  delightful.  We  had  constant 
showers,  but  were  protected  by  the  awning.  The 
nights  were  brilliant,  the  stars  soft,  the  moon  was 
lovely,  and  the  ship  sailing  always  with  a  fine  ten 
or  twelve  knot  trade.  Tlie  night  of  the  third,  the 
wind  being  almost  a  gale,  we  lay  to,  for  fear  of 
overrunning  the  port,  and  next  morning  in  view 
of  the  low  coast,  sailed  along,  until  about  mid-day 
we  came  in  sight  of  the  town.  It  lies  on  low  ground, 
directly  upon  the  beach,  where  a  heavy  surf  was 
rolling,  but  the  harbor  is  back  of  the  town,  and 
entered  by  the  Boca  Chica,  a  narrow  passage,  de- 
fended by  two  noble  batteries.     Through  this  you 


II 


\\ 


I; 

!i 
li 

!i 

)  :■ 

)  ! 
I  I 


176 


CARTAGENA 


[1854 


enter  a  noble  bay,  landlocked  like  a  lake,  in  the 
bosom  of  the  deep  forest,  which  rises  on  hills  of 
considerable  elevation.  Down  this  great  bay  we 
beat  against  the  wind,  which,  a  gale  outside,  was 
tempered  by  the  land  into  a  breeze.  We  were 
abreast  of  the  city  at  noon,  but  it  was  sunset  when 
we  left  the  Cijane,  now  gliding  along  as  quietly  as 
if  she  had  never  known  what  tumult  was,  and 
pulled  ashore  in  the  cool  evening,  delighted  with 
terra  jirmay 

"Cartagena,  Jan.  7th. 

'*  Above  the  town  and  about  three  miles  inland  is 
a  high  ridge,  terminating  in  a  precipice,  a  striking 
object,  and  giving  a  noble  view  of  the  expanse  of 
the  inland  lake  in  its  setting  of  green  woods.  I 
have  just  returned  from  a  before-breakfast  ride  to 
the  top  of  this  hill.  La  Popa.  A  narrow  winding 
path  leads  to  the  top  where  there  is  a  telegraph 
station,  and  an  old  ruined  convent — the  old  and  * 
the  new  meet  there  as  elsewhere.  The  old  fortifi- 
cations are  massive  and  magnificent.  They  are 
built  partly  of  coral  rock  and  there  is  a  grand  v 
broad  battery  looking  out  to  sea,  which  would  be 
the  glory  of  any  American  town.  There  is  a  gen- 
eral air  of  shabbiness  and  decay.  The  houses  are 
like  what  I  described  to  you  in  Panama,  of  two 
stories,  and  with  projecting  balconies,  and  great 
door- windows ;  entered  below  through  a  heavy 
portal,  and  are  built  on  arches,  and  round  a  court. 
It  is  evident  that  the  city  has  been  rich  and  splen- 
did, and  even  now,  a  little  prosperity  would  make 


. 


^T.  25] 


CARTAGENA. 


177 


it  a  fine  place.  However  decayed  these  old  towns 
may  be,  to  me  they  are  always  interesting- — roman- 
tically ruinous,  with  their  neglected  gardens  and 
shrubs,  in  the  courts  where  the  sun  hardly  enters. 
The  old  Viceroyal  palace  has  been  imposing,  with 
its  double  arcade,  but  looks  shabby  now.  Though 
the  heat  here  is  intense  in  the  day,  there  are  cool 
sea  breezes,  and  the  moonlight  nights  are  perfect. 
The  day  after  our  arrival,  there  was  an  official  in- 
terview with  the  Governor.  No  U.  S.  Man-of-war 
has  been  here  for  many  years,  and  we  created 
quite  a  sensation.  We  do  not,  however,  get  much 
information  about  our  destination — nobody  here 
has  been  there,  and  they  are  afraid  of  the  Indians — 
but  we  do  not  need  it,  as  our  party  will  probably 
be  the  first  to  cross.  We  learn  that  an  English, 
and  probably  a  French  man-of-war,  will  rendezvous 
on  this  side,  to  aid  in  the  survey,  and  the  Virciffo, 
that  I  met  at  Vancouver,  has  already  been  dis- 
patched to  the  Gulf  of  San  Miguel  on  the  other 
side.  The  Governor  informs  us  that  an  officer  of 
New  Granada  with  a  party  wishes  us  to  wait.  He 
is  expected  daily,  but  we  shall  probably  have  to 
stay  till  the  latter  part  of  next  week.  I  still  regard 
the  success  of  the  expedition  as  very  doubtful.  Most 
of  the  party  have  come  on  shore  and  are  at  the 
Hotel.  Last  night, — Twelfth  Night, — was  dis- 
tinguished by  a  half-masked  ball,  given  under  a 
tent  or  awning,  in  front  of  the  old  Palace  of  the 
Inquisition.  The  square  was  full  of  the  common 
people  gambling  and  dancing,  and  the  town  lighted, 


; 


(1 

i 


I( 


h! 


! 


f 


I 


178 


CALEDONIA    BAY. 


[1854 


and  crowded  with  promenadersand  maskers,  looked 
quite  lively.  There  was  not  so  much  beauty  as 
we  used  to  see  in  Panama.  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  this  noble  old  place,  one  of  the  great  centers 
of  old  Spanish  commerce." 

"  Feh.  16th,  1854. 

"  We  have  been  lying  quietly  some  time  in 
Caledonia  Bay — the  survey  of  the  harbor  proceed- 
ing rapidly.  There  is  no  definite  news  of  our 
exploring  party,  absent  now  nearly  four  weeks 
— my  anxiety  about  them  is  becoming  intense. 
Knowing  the  character  of  the  country,  I  cannot 
but  fear  for  their  safety,  especially  as  the  rumors 
from  the  Indians  are  in  general  unfavorable.  This 
is  a  most  beautiful  bay,  and  the  presence  of  four 
men-of-war,  with  their  boats  constantly  moving, 
gives  life  to  the  scene.  We  lie  here  as  in  a  smooth 
lake,  stretching  some  ten  miles  up  the  coast,  and 
sheltered  to  seaward  by  a  range  of  coral  "  cayes," 
covered  with  impenetrable  mangroves,  and  trav- 
ersed by  numberless  channels,  exquisite  narrow 
lanes  of  water,  through  which  the  boat  slips,  her 
oars  almost  touching  either  side.  The  main  land 
of  the  Isthmus  lies  to  the  south-west — mountain 
rising  above  mountain,  covered  with  the  dark 
foliage  of  this  climate.  These  dark  woods  look 
imposing  in  the  distance,  but  gloomy  enough  when 
you  are  encamped  in  their  untrodden  recesses. 
Their  color  is  relieved  by  some  purple  flowering 
trees,  and  by  the  wheel  of  the  graceful  cocoa  palm. 
If  one  were  asked  to  pick  out  a  spot  seemingly  im- 


m 


Ml.  25] 


CALEDONIA    BAY. 


179 


practicable  for  a  canal,  he  could  hardly  find  one 
more  connpletely  so  than  this  Isthmns,  as  we  see 
it  from  the  ship.  The  eye  hardly  finds  a  resting- 
place  of  level  ground,  in  following  back  the  suc- 
cessive ridges  that  lead  up  to  the  Cordillera,  the 
back  bone  of  the  Isthmus,  that  within  ten  miles  of 
the  shore,  rises  to  the  height  of  two  thousand  to 
four  thousand  feet.  As  you  advance  into  the  in- 
terior you  find  the  anticipated  difficulties  realized, 
the  mountains  are  solid,  craggy,  lofty;  the  for- 
ests are  impenetrable,  except  as  you  cut  your 
way  through  their  net  work;  the  rivers  are  tor- 
rents, up  whose  beds  and  over  whose  slippery 
rocks  walking  is  no  joke.  But  to  begin  at  the 
beginning. 

"  We  sailed  from  Cartagena  on  Jan.  13th.  Early 
on  the  17th,  we  cast  anchor  in  this  Bay.  A  few 
Indians  came  on  board  and  begged  the  Captain 
not  to  land,  till  they  should  have  communicated 
with  their  chiefs.  They  are  a  small  race,  with 
slight  but  active  forms,  brown  flat  Indian  faces, 
shapeless  features,  but  bright  quick  eyes,  noticing 
everything.  They  navigate  in  good  canoes,  made 
of  coarse  mahogany.  Capt.  Hollins  agreed  to  re- 
ceive on  board  a  council  of  chiefs,  a  boat  being 
dispatched  fifteen  miles,  to  bring  a  *  great  old 
man.'  I  went  also.  We  had  a  dangerous  time 
among  the  breakers  in  a  heavy  swell,  but  the  trip 
was  interesting.  The  weather  was  too  bad  to  re- 
turn the  same  day,  so  we  staid  aboard  a  small 
schooner  at  anchor  in  the  Bay — the  Indians  re- 


!  r 
1 


! 


180 


CALEDONIA    BAY. 


[1854 


: 


I      ! 


\  t 


questing  us  not  to  land.  We  lost  however  the 
council  of  chiefs — they  came  on  board  at  eleven 
A.  M.  and  staid  till  about  midnight,  discussing, 
without  food,  when  they  agreed  that  we  should 
enter  the  country,  on  Capt.  HoUins'  assurance  that 
lie  would  do  so  at  all  events.  This  deference  to 
the  Indians,  was  in  accordance  with  the  instruc- 
tions of  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  who  expressly 
forbade  any  leading  to  hostilities.  We  attributed 
the  unwillingness  of  the  Indians  to  policy,  but 
afterwards  found  that  they  feared  punishment  for 
the  murder  of  four  English  sailors  from  the  Virago. 
The  council  was  described  as  very  amusing — the 
gravity  of  the  Indians,  and  their  emphatic  in- 
articulate language,  their  odd  state  dresses,  old 
European  coats  and  no  trowsers.  They  live  com- 
fortably in  good  huts,  have  plenty  of  food,  and 
trade  for  shirts,  arms,  etc.  This  iiisignificant  race 
is  the  only  one,  except  the  Japanese,  that  has  kept 
itself  isolated  from  all  intercourse  with  strangers, 
save  a  little  trading  along  shore.  We  were  now 
to  enter  the  forests  of  their  unknown  country, 
where  one  Indian  is  an  army,  and  even  with  all 
their  assurances,  much  caution  is  necessary.  They 
appeared  to  think  a  canal  not  very  easy.  'Too 
much  hill — 'pose  Jesus  Christ  He  want  um  canal 
He  make  um,  He  no  want  um,  He  no  make  um.* 
They  have  very  little  idea  of  religion,  and  show  a 
sort  of  respect  to  rude  wooden  idols,  painted  in 
coats,  pants,  and  hats.  There  is  something  re- 
spectable in  the  proud  independence  they  show, 


Mr.  25] 


TROPICAL    NIGHT. 


181 


!  I 


refusing  presents,  refusing  to  trade,  and  deserting 
their  homes  while  we  are  here. 

"On  the  evening  of  January  19th  we  disem- 
barked in  the  heavy  surf  on  the  beach — no  good 
landing-place  having  as  yet  been  discovered — and 
some  of  them  got  everything  wet.  I  had  already 
satisfied  myself,  on  board  ship,  that  the  party  was 
badly  provided,  and  would  be  badly  managed  on 
shore,  and  anticipated  trouble.  We  camped  that 
night  in  some  huts  on  the  beach,  and  about  noon, 
started,  part  paddling,  part  dragging  a  canoe  up 
the  Caledonia,  a  considerable  stream,  the  bed  of 
the  proposed  canal.  At  evening,  having  made 
about  five  miles,  we  came  to  a  charming  cacao- 
grove,*  and  a  large  hut,  just  abandoned,  where  we 
were  glad  to  colonize.  The  cacao  is  a  pretty,  reg- 
ular tree  about  thirty  feet  high,  with  a  large  oval 
leaf.  The  great  rough,  red  pod  that  holds  the  fruit 
hangs  all  over  the  tree,  and  grows  frequently  out 
of  the  trunk.  Up  to  this  point,  the  river,  clear  as 
crystal,  had  been  easy  in  its  descent,  though  rapid. 
I  shall  never  forget  that  first  night!  My  watch 
was  from  twelve  to  two  o'clock;  the  moon  had  just 
risen ;  it  was  the  type  of  a  tropical  night,  soft  and 
clear,  a  glow  of  starlight,  and  from  time  to  time 
clouds  passing  over  the  moon  made  everything  look 
weird  and  strange.  Every  now  and  then  one  of 
the  men  would  think  he  saw  something  moving  in 
the  woods,  which  I  found  to  be  moonshine.  A 
dense  forest  surrounded  us,  and  from  it  came  in- 

'  .  Ci»cao  tree,  not  coooa  palm. 


I, 


i     ! 


!     i 


\i 


182 


EXPLORING. 


[1854 


numerable  sounds  of  insect  life,  with  strange 
screams  of  monkeys,  and  occasionally  the  cat-like 
mew  of  the  tiger.  The  party  lay  snjring,  each 
man  according  to  his  own  idea  of  music.  Next 
morning  we  marched  one  and  a  half  miles  up  the 
river,  to  the  junction  of  branches,  following  first 
the  east  branch,  till  it  became  such  a  mere  torrent  as 
to  stop  the  Ship  Canal  in  that  quarter.  Some  of  the 
party  pursued  the  branch  with  me,  further,  finding 
it  a  clear  mountain  stream,  falling  some  one  hun- 
dred feet  to  the  mile,  down  a  gorge  in  the  chain. 
It  was  a  New  P^ngland  stream  in  the  tropics,  over- 
hung with  drooping  palms  and  vine  canopies — very 
unfit  for  clipper  ships.  Returning  we  took  the 
other  branch.  This  is  the  hardest  walking  one  can 
do,  and  when  you  add  to  wading  for  hours  in  the 
stony  bed  of  a  rapid  stream,  the  load  of  your  knap- 
sack with  ten  days'  prog,  change  of  clothes,  pistol, 
ammunition  and  carbine,  all  with  the  mercury  at 
80 '  F.,  it  is  indeed  wearisome.  Most  glad  we  were 
to  come  to  camp  in  a  charming  spot  on  the  west 
branch.  Next  morning  we  pursued  the  stream, 
and  in  two  hours,  coming  to  a  gorge  which  we 
could  not  pass  in  the  river  bed,  the  word  was  given 
to  take  to  the  hillside.  This  was  very  steep  and 
thickly  wooded,  and  when  I  had,  with  much  diffi- 
culty clambered  round  into  the  stream  again,  I 
found  I  was  joined  by  only  four  of  the  party. 
Here  we  stopped,  and  waited  for  the  rest,  firing 
the  concerted  signal.  After  waiting  nearly  two 
hours  and  finding  the  shots  apparently  tending  up 


Mt.  25] 


EXPLORING. 


183 


stream,  and  above  us,  still  in  pursuance  of  orders, 
we  followed  slowly  up,  expecting  every  moment  to 
overtake  them. 

"  But  we  saw  nothing  of  them,  and  following  up 
the  whole  of  that  day,  passed  the  night  on  a  little 
bit  of  smooth  rock,  the  only  spot  large  enough  to 
hold  us.  Above,  the  stream  came  falling  in  a  suc- 
cession of  tumbling  cascades,  and  on  each  side  rose 
high  mountains.  Up  the  mountain,  to  the  right, 
we  cut  a  path  next  morning,  finding  a  summit  of, 
say  two  thousand  feet.  From  a  tree  on  the  top,  we 
could  see  nothing  but  similar  mountains,  clothed 
with  profound  forests.  Mr.  Holcomb,  one  of  our 
five,  has  been  many  years  in  these  countries,  as 
engineer  on  canals  and  railroads,  and  volunteered 
to  join  us.  He  knew  more  of  the  country  and  how 
to  proceed  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  I  had 
some  experience  by  this  time,  and  we  two  could 
decide  best  as  to  a  safe  course.  We  had  reached 
a  point  where  no  further  progress  was  possible  up 
the  stream,  and  had  no  compass  to  guide  us  for- 
ward or  backward  in  these  forests,  where  a  vertical 
sun  is  no  help,  and  there  are  none  of  the  indications 
of  northern  woods.  We  had  only  one  hatchet  for 
cutting  our  path,  and  perhaps  three  days'  provisions. 
So  we  decided  to  retrace  our  steps  to  the  ship, 
searching  by  the  way  for  traces  of  the  party,  and 
succeeded  in  reaching  it  the  following  day.  Hav- 
ing made  our  report,  Capt.  HoUins  dispatched  two 
parties  on  our  recommendation,  one  to  fcjllow  fur- 
ther the  east  branch,  and  the  other,  with  Holcomb 


''•\ 


184 


EXPLORING. 


[1854 


I 
11 


ii 


< 


! 


and  myself,  to  try  and  discover  the  route  taken  by 
our  main  party,  and  carry  them  relief  During  our 
absence  H.  M.  Brig  Fspuyle  and  French  steamer 
CJd  neve  had  arrived  bringing  the  Knglish  engi- 
nejrs.  We  had  met  their  exploring  party,  some 
Hixty  in  number,  as  we  came  down  to  the  beach. 

"  When  we  arrived  at  the  forks  of  the  River,  the 
officer  in  command,  who  had  been  instructed  to 
detach  certain  men  with  relief  for  Strain,  for  rea- 
sons of  his  own,  diminished  our  number  and  stores. 
However,  Holcomb  and  I  determined  to  push  on, 
and  even  if  we  could  not  find  the  other  party,  to 
explore  somethinf^  of  the  interior.  This  time  we 
had  four  men  and  three  gentlemen,  a  compass,  and 
for  want  of*  machetes,'  sharp  cutlasses  to  cut  paths, 
extra  shoes,  but  not  the  proper  amount  of  p  o vi- 


sions 


>» 


"  By  making  long  marches  the  first  and  second 
days,  and  cutting  into  the  woods,  we  managed  to 
strike,  near  the  spot  where  the  party  had  separated, 
an  Indian  trail,  which  they  had  followed.  We 
traced  it,  though  little  marked  by  them,  up  and 
down  high  hills,  for  about  two  hours,  till  we  came 
to  a  small  stream,  flowing  apparently  into  the  Pa- 
cific. Here  we  found  their  camp,  and  a  note  in  a 
forked  stick.  The  only  way  we  can  account  for 
their  turning  off  so  suddenly  is,  that  overjoyed  at 
finding  this  trail,  Mr.  Strain  forgot  that  some  of 
the  party  must  according  to  his  orders  be  follow- 
ing the  stream,  and  pushed  on,  trusting  to  his  fir- 
ing to  bring  us  along,  whereas,  had  he  thought  of 


Mr,  25] 


T//E    SEARCH, 


185 


:.i| 


sending  a  messenger  \ip  stream,  he  would  have 
found  ns  waiting  for  him.  His  note  said  that  he 
woukl  foHow  down  the  small  stream,  thinking  it  a 
tributary  to  tlie  River  we  were  in  search  of,  the 
Savanna,  leaving  it,  and  cutting  across,  should  its 
course  prove  unfavorable.  On  examining  every- 
thing carefully,  our  conchision  was  to  cut  in  a 
diagonal  on  our  course,  thinking  we  might  fall  in 
with  traces  of  the  party.  We  proceeded  all  day 
across  the  ridges,  cutting  our  path  slowly,  over 
places  that  were  nearly  precipitous,  and  then  were 
obliged  to  camp  on  a  sloping  mountain  side,  so 
steep  that  I  was  constantly  obliged  to  pull  myself 
back  into  place.  We  cut  down  palm  leaves  for  a 
bed,  but  there  was  poor  sleep  for  any  one.  A  tire 
was  essential,  to  keep  off  tigers. 

"  The  next  day  we  cut  our  way  to  the  summit 
of  the  ridge,  about  three  thousand  feet  high,  and 
clearing  away  the  trees,  got  a  view  of  the  bay  and 
ships,  eleven  or  twelve  miles  off  at  the  least.  You 
can  have  no  idea  of  the  thickness  of  these  woods; 
sometimes  not  a  step  in  advance  is  possible,  unless 
you  cut  your  way  through  matted  vines  and  bushes, 
and  worse,  the  long  sword-like  leaves  of  the  prickly 
pinuela.  Proceeding  a  little  further,  we  cut  our 
way  to  the  west,  hoping  to  have  a  view  likewise 
toward  the  Pacific,  but  we  saw  nothing  but  more 
mountains.  There  was  a  long  valley  in  our  course, 
which  we  followed  down  till  we  found  a  little  level 
where  we  camped  early  and  rested.  I  made  my 
bed  under  an  exquisite  young  palm,  but  he  did  not 


4    f 


I 


lit 


1 


186 


T//E    SEARCH. 


[1854 


shelter  me  from  the  showers  which  are  frequent 
here.  Next  morning  we  started,  everything  wet, 
and  pitching  down  a  precipice  of  one  thousand  feet 
by  aid  of  trees  and  vines,  came  to  the  romantic 
gorge  of  our  stream.  Its  course  was  exactly  what 
we  wished,  and  receiving  almost  immediately  sev- 
eral branches,  it  became  a  considerable  river,  flowing 
through  the  most  romantic  scenery.  From  all  we 
had  heard  we  inferred  that  this  river  was  the  Sa- 
vanna, and  followed  it,  almost  certain  of  overtaking 
our  party.  For  two  days  and  a  half  we  followed 
the  River,  which  wound  more  and  more,  finding 
occasionally  traces  of  Indians,  and  one  small  plan- 
tain patch,  whence  we  heard  a  gun,  which  we 
supposed  was  a  signal  from  our  party.  On  pro- 
ceeding to  the  spot  the  Indian  had  made  tracks. 
On  the  second  day  we  became  convinced  that  the 
river  was  not  the  Savanna  but  the  Chaqunque, 
which,  according  to  the  English  engineers,  ought 
to  have  been  in  quite  another  place.  But  nothing 
could  exceed  the  unreliability  of  our  information — 
it  was  all  wrong.  We  determined  to  follow  this 
stream  as  long  as  our  provisions  would  allow.  As 
the  River  grew  lai'ger,  we  could  no  longer  march 
in  its  bed,  but  had  to  leave  it  constantly  and  cut. 
On  the  noon  of  the  third  day's  march  down  the 
River,  Holcomb  and  I  left  the  party,  and,  climbing 
to  the  top  of  the  highest  hill,  took  a  survey  of  the 
country  to  the  west.  No  level,  but  a  high  coast 
range  shut  out  the  view.  A  point  had  now  been 
reached  beyond  which  it  was  not  safe  to  venture, 


^r.  25] 


THE    SEARCH. 


187 


!i 


without  risking  our  lives;  our  provisions  barely 
sufficed  for  our  return,  and  to  cut  our  way  across 
to  some  unknown  point  on  the  Gulf  of  San  Miguel 
might  be  perilous.  So  we  turned  back,  repassing 
the  same  way,  and  seeing  some  game,  wild  turkeys, 
deer,  monkeys,  ducks,  and  tracks  of  wild  hog, 
tigers  and  tapirs.  Reaching  the  Indian's  hut  again, 
still  deserted,  we  were  glad  to  borrow  some  of  his 
plantains  to  make  a  grand  feast,  and  started,  re- 
freshed, carrying  some  with  us.  It  was  always 
difficult  to  sleep,  from  watchfulness,  fatigue,  and 
the  noises  of  the  woods,  and  I  used  to  move  in  the 
morning,  very  seedy." 

"We  made  some  terrible  marches  on  our  re- 
turn, putting  two  and  a  half  days'  march  into  one, 
being  able  to  do  it  on  account  of  the  path  we  had 
cut,  and  reached  the  ship  on  the  evening  of  the 
ninth  day.  Both  the  other  parties  had  arrived 
before  us,  without  penetrating  more  than  ten  miles 
or  so  into  the  Cordillera,  and  that  not  in  a  direct 
line.  At  the  lowest  estimate,  we  had  gone,  say 
forty-five  miles,  more  than  far  enough  to  have 
reached  tide  water  on  the  Pacific  had  we  been  in 
the  right  way,  and  not  misinformed.  If  nothing 
should  be  heard  of  our  first  party,  these  falsities  will 
be  one  cause  of  their  loss.  For  there  is  now  reason 
to  fear  that  they  have  met  with  some  dreadful  fate, 
though  we  by  no  means  give  up  hope.  Since  the 
note  we  found,  which  was  dated  Jan.  24th,  up  to 
to-day,  Feb.  17th,  nothing  has  been  heard  of  the 
party,  and  we  fear  starvation,  exhaustion,  or  pes- 


188 


CALEDONIA    BAY. 


[1854 


sibly  violence  from  the  Indians,  may  have  destroyed 
them.  One  of  the  engineers  has  started  for  the 
interior  with  an  Indian  guide. 

*'i^e6.  19th.  We  have  now  in  port  the  Cyane^ 
the  British  brig  Devastation  and  surveying  schoon- 
er Scorpion — French  steamer  Ghimh'ey  a  coasting 
steamer,  and  a  New  Grenadian  force  of  about  eighty 
men.  Nothing  is  doing  but  the  survey  of  the  bay, 
nothing  is  heard  of  the  missing  party.  It  is  prob- 
able that  in  a  few  days  a  carefully  equipped  party 
will  be  dispatched  in  search  of  them.  Time  hangs 
heavy,  for  anxiety  about  their  fate  is  always  pres- 
ent to  my  mind,  but  it  is  pleasant  on  board,  the 
climate  is  delightful,  with  a  fresh  breeze,  mercury 
at  80''  R,  ship  in  fine  order,  Capt.  Hollins  very 
amusing,  sensible,  and  full  of  jolly  yarns.  Civili- 
ties pass  between  the  vessels,  and  I  have  the  pleas- 
antest  kind  of  intercourse  with  the  officers.  We 
vary  the  monotony  by  a  sail,  or  a  little  fishing  or 
shooting." 

"  Caledonia  Bay,  Feb.  22d,  1864. 

"  Dear  Mother  : — It  gives  me  a  strange  feeling 
to  think  of  the  possibility  of  the  loss  of  our  whole 
party,  and  that  if  Holcomb  and  I  had  not  been 
separated  from  them,  there  was  much  more  chance 
of  their  safety.  Why  should  five  out  of  the  twenty- 
seven  have  been  saved  by  the  merest  accident,  and 
the  remainder  have  perished,  as  we  fear,  by  the  most 
dreadful  of  deaths  ?  Life  is  of  very  little  value  to 
me,  as  I  shall  never  accomplish  anything  in  it,  but 
there  is  something  very  desperate  in  the  idea  of 


Ml.  25] 


SEARCH  RELINQUISHED. 


189 


death  in  this  wilderness.  There  is  still  a  possibility 
of  their  safety,  all  our  anxiety  may  be  thrown  away, 
and  I  endeavor  to  put  away  desperate  thoughts.  A 
very  few  days  will  decide.  Meantime  everything 
goes  on  quietly  on  board.  It  is  tedious,  but  I  must 
wait  till  I  hear  of  the  party,  though  I  have  been 
offered  a  passage  in  the  Esjnegle." 

From  printed  Account. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  any  men  in  their 
senses  could  have  been  so  totally  deceived  with  re- 
gard to  the  whole  character  of  the  Isthmus  as  those 
two  engineers.  If  there  is  no  better  passageway 
than  this,  the  ship  canal  is  impracticable.  We  of- 
fered to  refit  and  continue  the  search,  but  this  was 
not  considered  necessary  by  Capt.  HoUins.  Mr. 
Holcomb,  finding  that  nothing  remained  to  be  done, 
and  thinking  Lieut.  Strain  must  have  crossed  safely 
to  the  Pacific,  took  passage  in  a  coasting  vessel  to 
Aspinwall.  No  further  search  was  undertaken 
while  the  Cyane  lay  in  Caledonia  Bay.  As  time 
passed,  great  anxiety  began  to  be  felt,  but  it  was 
not  till  she  had  sailed  to  Aspinwall  that  we  were 
convinced  of  their  loss.  Capt.  Hollins  distinctly 
informed  me  that  no  further  search  would  be  un- 
dertaken, and  that  the  expedition  was  at  an  end.  I 
therefore  requested  and  received  from  him  a  formal 
letter  of  discharge,  and  took  passage,  with  Messrs. 
Holcomb  and  Bird  in  a  steamer  for  New  York. 
Shortly  after  my  arrival,  I  received  letters  from 
the  Cyane,  stating  that  their  plans  had  been  unex- 


)  I 


;  I 


; ; 


190 


RETURN  HOME. 


[1854 


1;  I   !' 


•y. 


■4    D        it 


pectedly  changed  and  that  they  should  renew  the 
search.  I  subsequently  heard  ofthe  arrival  of  Lieut. 
Strain  and  his  party  on  the  Pacific,  without  aid 
from  the  ship.  The  above  is  a  plain  statement  of 
facts.  Justice  to  myself  and  the  gentlemen  placed 
ill  a  similar  position  renders  it  necessary  to  make 
this  explicit  denial  of  any  wish  to  separate  from 
Lieut.  Strain's  party,  or  of  our  neglect  to  do  all 
in  our  power  to  search  for,  and  relieve  him.  We 
acted  through  all  undor  the  orders  and  with  the 
approval   of  Capt.    Ilollins." 

Lieut.  Strain  rp  ached  the  Pacific  in  safety,  after  un- 
dergoing gref.o  hardships  and  losing  several  men  by 
exhaustion  and  starvation,  and  the  whole  expedition 
was  a  failure. 

Theodore  Winthrop  reached  home  in  March,  1854 
Here  ends  his  period  of  travel  and  adventure;  and 
after  this  time  his  mind  was  occupied  in  using  this  ma- 
terial, and  in  making  various  essays  toward  the  liter- 
ary life  he  longed  for,  in  planning  and  beginning  tales 
and  novels,  and  finally  in  writing  the  novels  which 
gave  him  posthumous  fame.  They  were  most  care- 
fully written  and  re-written,  cast  and  re-cast.  He  used 
to  say  that  he  could  not  sleep  at  night  sometimes,  for 
the  plots  of  stories  that  ran  in  his  head.  Among  his 
writings  are  dozens  of  these,  sketched  out  or  hinted 
at,  and  often  several  different  beginnings,  apparently 
for  the  same  storv.  His  note-books  of  travel  with  their 
covers  of  rough  deerskin  and  birch  bark  contain  many 
such  hints  and  ideas. 

Soon  after  his  return  home  he  began  to  study  law 
with  Mr.  Charles  Trac^'  of  New  York,  and  his  mother's 


JEt.  25-6] 


STATEN  ISLAND. 


191 


' 


family  removed,  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year,  from 
New  Haven,  to  Staten  Island,  where  they  formed  one 
family  with  the  branch  then  residing  there,  an  arrange- 
ment adding  greatly  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of 
all  parties.  During  the  winter  a  course  of  free  lec- 
tures was  given  on  Staten  Island,  and  Winthrop  gave 
two  lectures,  one  called  "  Adventure,"  in  which  he  led 
his  hearers  through  the  mazes  of  a  tropic  forest,  and 
the  other  on  the  subject  of  "  The  Fine  Arts  in  America." 

His  brother  William,  who  had  been  admitted  to  the 
Boston  Bar,  and  had  afterwards  come  to  New  York, 
lived  there  also,  and  the  brothers,  with  their  brother- 
in-law,  W.  Templeton  Johnson,  had  much  outdoor  life 
together;  they  enjoyed  rowing  in  the  old-fashioned 
way,  before  the  swift  and  unsocial  "  shell "  and  canoe 
were  invented.  The  three  were  good  walkers,  and 
would  often  on  a  Sunday  or  holiday  morning  have 
pleasant  tramps  of  twenty  or  thirty  miles  over  the  hills 
of  Staten  Island,  exploring  them  pretty  thoroughly, 
and  breathing  their  pure  air. 

For  the  summer  holidays  of  1855,  an  expedition  wiis 
planned  to  Mt.  Desert  by  Mr.  Tracy,  a  place  of  which 
he  and  some  of  his  friends  may  be  said  to  have  been 
the  discoverers  in  the  year  1854,  though  artists  like 
Church  and  Kensett  had  been  there  already.  They 
sent,  early  in  the  spring  of  1855,  to  have  preparations 
made  for  a  large  party,  in  the  houses  of  several  farmers 
of  the  place,  to  whom  summer  boarders  were  till  then 
unknown,  even  sending  vegetable  seeds  to  be  planted 
and  providing  various  stores  for  their  own  use.  The 
party  consisted  of  Mr.  Tracy  and  Mr.  Titus  with  their 
families,  F.  E.  Chui'ch,  just  rising  into  fame  as  a  painter, 
Winthrop  and  his  brother,  and  other  young  people, 


;      I 


li 


:  .1 


I 

i 

i'    I 


h. 


I'ij 


f' 


;■ 


192 


MT.    DESERT. 


[1855 


altogether  numbering  about  thirty  persons,  who  took 
possession  of  the  island  of  Mt.  Desert,  and  must  indeed 
have  made  its  echoes  ring.  So  carefully  planned  and 
well  selected  a  party  could  not  fail  to  be  a  success,  and 
in  fact,  its  members  that  remain  still  look  fondly  back 
to  the  Mt.  Desert  expedition  as  the  happiest  frolic  of 
their  lives.  The  aborigines  marveled,  and  yet  were 
delighted  to  see  pleasures  and  goings  on,  the  like  of 
which  they  had  never  imagined  before,  and  when  the 
gay  summer  was  ended  by  a  grand  ball,  given  by  the 
party  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  Bar  Harbor  in  a  big 
barn,  with  decorations  by  Church,  jokes  by  Winthrop, 
and  dancing  by  everybody,  the  island  thought  that 
nothing  half  so  "  splendid  "  had  ever  happened  to  it 
before.  Since  then  tourists  have  taken  possession,  it 
has  become  a  watering  place,  and  lots  have  risen  in 
value,  but  it  is  not  likely  that  any  party  has  ever  been  so 
happy  on  its  lovely  shores  again.  Not  long  after  this 
summer  holiday,  Winthrop's  first  novel,  "  Mr.  Waddy's 
Return,"  was  projected  and  written,  the  scene  of  which 
is  partly  laid  at  Mt.  Desert.  It  has  never  been  pub- 
lished. The  following  little  poems  are  also  memorials 
of  this  unique  summer. 

Droop  lower,  gloom,  and  hide 

Past  years,  that  drowning  creep  o'er  years  to  be  I 
This  urgent  future,  like  a  tide 

Whelms  my  faint  struggles  with  eternity. 

Wrap  closer,  mists  I  not  one 

Fair  weather  consort  hope  of  mine  is  nigh. 
Their  white  sails  faded  with  the  sun, 

And  I  drift  where  I  lost  them,  cheerlessly. 


1 


Mt.  26] 


POEMS. 


193 


Thus  mused  I,  when  a  gush 

Of  girlish  laughter  dunced  along  the  air, 
Voices  as  radiant  as  a  flush 

Of  sunbeams,  that  the  ripples  cannot  bear 

To  see,  and  smile  not.     Sounds 

Of  finest  graceful  gladness,  they  awake 

Quivers  of  joy-throbs,  wider  bounds, 

All  pulsing  upwards,  till  our  stirred  hearts  make 

One  leap  to  ecstasy!  ^ 

And  poising  like  an  eaglet  on  a  breeze 

Are  fanned  thro'  realms  of  fantasy 

Heavenward  sweeping  over  sparkling  seas, 

Then  sink  in  pensive  peace ! 

Thanks,  gentle  melody !    My  gloom  is  fled. 
Delicate  laughter,  never  cease  I 

Or  live  in  echoes,  cii'cling  overhead; 

As  faint  gold  haloes  crown 

The  saintliness  of  maidens,  only  seen 

When  star-like  eyes  look  down 
And  recognize  on  earth  a  sister  sheen. 


Drifting  and  sailing  like  a  sleep, 

Uncertain  as  a  dream, 
Slowly  along  the  wooded  steep. 
Lowly  the  mist  wreaths  trail  and  creep, 

Clinging  above  the  stream. 
Now  dawn  will  boldly  leap; 

We  wait  its  gleam. 


1: 


i^iH 


194 


POEMS. 


[1855 


Brighter  and  broader,  fairest  light  I 

Grow  to  a  grander  noon: 
Hope  of  young  day  most  exquisite, 
Spring  to  a  future  radiantly  bright, 

Mantle  the  earth  with  princely  boon 
Of  glowing  splendor !     Yes,  our  night 

Will  vanish  soon. 

Backward,  and  downward,  oh  they  fall ! 

The  saddening  mists  return ! 
Were  they  our  hopes  that  vanished  all? 
Or  gloomy  draped  in  funeral  pall 

Mourners  became  ?     A  present,  stern 
With  hopelessness,  makes  us  its  thrall. 

Fair  dawn !  return ! 

Watching  and  hoping  wait  we  still  I 

Light  is  not  perished  yet: 
Count  its  great  heart-beats  by  the  thi'ill 
Of  stars,  that  ever  eager  trembling,  will 

Pay  with  quick  messages  the  debt 
Of  starry  duty,  glimmering  unti' 

Night  rolls  its  veil  of  jet. 


Yonder  our  shout  has  waked  a  tone 
Of  gentle  answer.     They  seemed  lone, 
Those  words.     A  misty  sunset  wreath 
Stole  their  faint  life,  and  underneath 
Left  ghostly  twilight.     But  we  spoke- 
Then  silence  instant  into  music  woke. 
Not  melody  unsyllabled  that  falls 
Shaken  in  ripples  from  among  the  leaves, 


1855 


JEt.  2fil 


FORMS. 


195 


When  winds  are  breathing  forth  their  whisper-calls; 

But  a  familiar  voice  the  silence  cleaves, — 

And  echoes  o'er  the  shadowy  moveless  lake, 

Soothed  into  calmness,  for  the  sake 

Of  those  soft  voices  exquisite ; 

Most  gayly  sweet  in  shrill  delight 

Of  song  and  pause,  till  words  far  lost 

Deep  in  the  forest  back  were  tost; 

But  faint,  as  if  the  woods  unwillingly 

Answering,  pai'ted  with  that  harmony ; 


Ki 


sin 


So,  when  our  souls  stand  on  the  brink 

Of  silence,  and  our  glances  shrink 

From  awe  beyond,  we  timid  cast 

A  longing  question  through  the  vast 

Unknown.     Then  listen !  fading  fly 

Those  answer  echoes.     Ah,  they  die  I 

And  silence  comes  again,  and  mystery. 

Oh  voiceful  silence !     Let  it  yield  to  thee 

The  secret,  in  revealing  echoes  sent ! 

Such  longings  were  their  own  accomplishment. 


i 


CHAPTER   VII. 

TWO   WOBLDS. 

A  ^Sra"p::iii'r  \^  ^y  ^^^ ««« of  ..two 

-stained  effoH.    ItZle^l^'''  .'^^'"*'^<'P'«  ^e.t 
to  publication  a^d  .IZ^t'^'  ^"''^^  ^"^  a  view 
ca»e  more  fascinated  XthV^'"'" /'""'*'  "«  >>«  ^• 
or  more  aware  of  the  difflcuuL  oTth   ^'""T  ''"*'''^' 
It  appeared  at  first  too  unfinM Id  to  ""<l«rtating. 

but  upon  careful  study  it  sem  '1  ^^  *°  *'^«  P""'". 
<'ff  redundancies  to  shTw  th!t  "^  o-^^  "ecessa^  to  cut 
and  worthy  of  his  reputit  Jf  .  ""f  "^^^  ^''^  ^O'^, 
verse,  it  is  full  of  „™^°";    ^  ^t  of  novel  in  blank 

We  and  travel,  noble t;M;rf'vTh  'L''"''  ^P^'  °^ 
presentiments;  the  retreatin^^  "'°"^''*«'  «°d  «trange 
ing  with  it  the  rich  1x22^^  "' '"'^^"''^e.  car^- 
years.    The  prophetic  Xe         T  '"''^'^'  "owdTd 

~  fail  .oU,  e:e;;tr '"'  ^°^^^-'«  •^-''^ 

-^  «^-Patbeti?whT3XLt  ^"^  ''"^'^^ 
ttrop,  though  but  a  tourkt  h!^       humanity.    Win- 

Mure  of  the  wUd  hopes  oTis^  T\^  ^"""P^  t^e 

pes  ot  1848,  the  disappointment. 


.Er.  27] 


TfP^O    ^VOKLDS. 


197 


)0 

le 
le 


the  reaction,  the  despair;  and  it  had  8unk  ver}'  far 
into  his  younj^  soul.  And  as  those  years  passed  on, 
the  skies  still  grew  darker,  till  now,  in  1855,  he  could 
find  little  to  cheer.  Napoleon  III.  was  weaving  those 
wehs  that  took  all  kingdoms  into  his  toils,  and  be- 
witching his  country  with  the  magic  of  a  name — not 
rightly  his  own.  England,  the  great  beating  heart 
of  the  world,  jDulsatiug  through  all  her  arteries  to 
its  extremities,  was  learning  slowly  her  lesson,  while 
France,  the  brain  of  Europe,  was  dulled  with  false- 
hood's opiates.  The  futile  Crimean  war  had  begun, 
the  red  dawn  in  Italy  was  darkened  with  clouc^s,  and 
Cavour's  far-reaching  plans  were  as  yet  uviknown. 
The  master-currents  that  now  sweep  all  fc^as,  and 
have  already  borne  away  so  much  that  was  impure 
and  evil,  were  then  but  under-currents,  murmuring 
in  the  night.  America,  disgraced,  and  drifting  as 
if  to  total  wreck,  stood  with  the  slave-whip  in  her 
hand,  upon  a  sinking  deck;  no  more  the  hope  of  Free- 
dom and  the  world.  It  was  the  darkness  before  dawn; 
yet  the  morning  star  was  rising  in  Kansas,  for  those 
whose  eyes,  half  blinded  with  tears,  were  searching 
everywhere  for  light,  and  quick  ears  could  hear  the  low 
whisper  of  the  great  prairie  winds,  soon  to  swell  into 
the  roar  of  the  storm.  Save  this  gleam,  all  was  gloom 
upon  our  little  ball,  where  we  are  held  by  force  so 
irresistible,  that  we  cannot  leave  it,  even  to  explore 
our  own  forlorn,  dead  moon,  still  less  to  learn  one 
moment's  history  of  the  million  worlds  that  fill  the 
boundless  space  bej'ond.  Such  was  the  time  in  which 
this  Poem  was  written. 


198 


7W0    IVOKLDS. 


TWO  WORLDS. 


[1855 


I 

QUIEF. 

The  prairies.     Storms  at  war  with  sunset.    Night, 

Stern  despot  of  the  Orient,  watched  to  crush 

All  the  stern  glory  of  that  battling  west. 

But  light  was  born  to  be  a  Victor,  now 

Is  Victor,  who  can  say  it  shall  not  be  ? 

Vain  the  slant  javelins  of  showers,  and  vain 

Drifting  bewilderment  of  skirmishers. 

There  was  a  master  radiance  in  the  sky, 

A  dash  of  beaming  sabers  into  gloom. 

Oh,  brilliant  charge !    See,  they  are  struggling  through  I 

Clouds  break  in  gorgeous  pageantry  of  flight; 

Pennon  and  plume  and  lance  and  morion 

Glittered,  then  swiftly  fled,  to  die  forlorn; 

Fled,  as  a  melting  army  vanishes, — 

So  passed  the  hero  Sun  to  due  repose. 

Then  came  a  brightening  forth  of  stars,  as  flowers 

Peep  timid  from  a  trodden  battle-field, 

The  sweeter  for  the  horror  that  was  there. 

The  prairies.     Sunset.     Massy,  surging  lands 
Swept  level  westward  into  boundlessness. 
Oh !  glorious  wildness  of  those  rolling  plains ! 
A  sea  of  land,  mighty  and  beaconless. 
But  the  bold  race  that  fate  has  launched  on  it 
Shall  chase,  and  grapple  with  the  sunset  fires. 
And  face  to  face  with  virgin  nature,  find 
Such  unwooed  beauty  as  in  paradise. 


65 


JEt.  27] 


GRIEF. 


199 


hi 


Twilight  upon  the  prairien.     Silontly 
Forth  passed  a  molaneholy  mourning  train; 
From  some  rudo  frontier  fort  the  funeral  came. — 
There  are  some  carrion  souls  who  greedily 
Trample  and  foul  dear  memories  of  the  dead; 
But  this  grave  must  be  sacred,  and  they  chose 
A  thin  grove  that  the  river  islanded. 
A  river,  purposeless; — not  urgently 
Through  chasms  flying;  lied;  while  melody 
Of  lingering  echoes,  trembled  up  the  gorge — 
Not  thus,  but  over  sandy  levels  spread 
Dwindled  along  to  shallow  vanishings, 
To  such  an  idleness  of  unlinked  pools, 
As  thoughtless  summer  leaves  to  parch  and  die, 
Or  hopeless  waters  on  a  seaside  waste, 
AVhere  hasty,  cruel  tides  abandoned  them. 

A  desolate  grave,  barren  and  lone  as  death. 
Where  no  familiar  landscape  soothed  the  soul 
With  memories  bitter-sweet  of  boyish  days. 
Where  never  Nature  could  conspire  with  time; 
There  were  they  buried.     No  half  sacrifice, 
Manhood  and  beauty  immolated  both ! — 
Fate  dared  not  leave  that  lonely  woman  there. 

A  soldier's  grave,  a  soldier's  funaral ! 
His  troop  fired  harsh  farewell,  then  shrank  away 
Leaving  an  orphan  'wildered  by  his  grief, 
Listening  amazed  to  the  low-tapping  drum, 
That  hke  his  heart-beats  marked  a  dirge 

Alone,  upon  a  desert  reach  of  plain 
Stood  the  rude  outwork  fort* — a  nation's  march 
One  day  may  leave  a  sudden  city  there. 

*  Fort  Laramie. 


\  \ 


li 

I; 


t' 


200 


rPVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Far  wavering  dimness  of  a  tropic  land, 

On  the  weird  stormy  edge  of  a  wild  sea, 

May  silence  gray  despair  with  sober  hope, 

For  men  who  tread  a  slowly-sinking  deck; 

But  never  such  more  welcome  to  the  wrecked, 

Than  this  lone  fort,  when  hope's  last  buoyancy 

Has  sunk  away  from  some  poor  lost  one,  drowned 

And  mastered  by  the  long  land  surges  power. 

— Terribly  lightless  skies  gloom  over  him. 

The  wail  of  winds  has  saddened  to  a  dirge. 

His  glance,  like  drowsy  sailors,  careless  falls, 

Haply  to  spy,  now  lift  now  sink  again, 

Far  white  sails  of  a  distant  caravan, 

Chasing  the  west  wind.     Ah,  in  vain,  in  vain ! 

Gladly  would  he  despair,  and  sleep  and  die — 

When  hope  dies,  souls  die — but  his  weary  frame 

Inertly  rouses  for  one  effort  more. 

No !  can  it  be  ?    A  smoke !    The  fort !    Life !    Life ! 

Dull  sense  of  safety  first,  then  every  pulse 

Trembles  to  music  of  a  new-born  joy. 

To  meet  that  lonely  fort's  warm  welcoming; — 

For  kindly  influence  was  there,  more  sweet 

Than  even  soldier's  hospitality: 

A  woman's  hand,  a  woman's  heart  ruled  there — 

Strange  contrast  fates  that  brought  her  there  to  die ! 

Moon  rising  on  the  prairies.     As  a  ghost 
Peering  to  watch  if  it  were  yet  her  hour, 
Pale  she  arose,  and  chilled  each  shuddering  star. 
A  breeze  as  soft,  and  sadder  than  the  night. 
Swept,  gathering  moans  of  an  all- weary  world, 
To  sigh  them  forth  where  'twas  most  desolate. 
But  grief  was  there  far  wilder  than  the  winds, 


>5 


/Ex.  27] 


GRIEF. 


201 


It  struck  them  dumb  with  keeuer  wail  thau  theirs; 
Oh,  autumn  winds !  unmusical  with  leaves, 
Bring  back  the  tender  love  that  yesterday 
Was  better  than  aU  hope  to  this  poor  boy, 
To-day  an  orphan,  friendless  and  alone. 

— Ho !  for  the  prairies !     How  I  long  again 

From  dawn  to  dusk  to  gallop  freely  there, 

With  my  heart  in  my  throat,  dashing,  not  beating. 

Dreaming  myself,  perhaps,  some  virgin  knight, 

Who  after  vigils,  noble  with  resolves. 

Scarfed  by  his  mistress,  breathes  a  sword-hilt  prayer, 

Springs  to  his  horse  and  hies  to  chivalry. 

Voicing  his  joy  in  shouts,  his  love  in  songs. — 


Ho !  for  the  prairies !     To  the  chase  they  sped 

At  dawn,  the  father  and  the  son.     The  hosts 

Of  shaggy  bearded  buffaloes  afar 

Were  cropping  dainty  pleasure  amid  flowers. 

Soon  tainted  breezes  warned  them.     Hence,  away ! 

And  panic  trembled  on  from  group  to  group. 

A  sound  of  the  gallop  of  horses  came  with  the  wind, 

The  ponderous  thousands  fled  all  terrorstruck. 

They  knew  untrodden  valleys  far  away, 

Maiden  tressed  meadows,  soothed  by  amorous  airs, 

Slow  drifting  eagles  overhead  might  deem 

Those  vales  fair  lakes  of  mountain  loveliness, 

Such  sun-shot  ripples  trembled  over  them. 

Thither  their  flight  was  surging.     Suddenly 

A  hunter  on  a  hill  crest  full  in  front, 

An  errant  savage — stood  against  the  sky. 

New  panic  swerved  the  herd.     They  trampled  back- 

What  recked  they  of  the  prairie  flow  ers  they  crushed  ?- 


202 


riVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Fled  bellowing  along  to  solitude. 
At  last,  slow  thought  of  safety  gave  them  rest. 
Their  dark  bulk  islanded  the  vale.     They  grazed, 
While  champions  held  unwieldy  tournament. 
Back  on  the  prairie,  crushed  to  utter  horror. 
Speechlessly  striving  for  a  ruined  smile. 
The  father  died — and  the  son  knelt  by  him 
Utterly  wrecked,  upon  that  rcHing  sea. 

The  boy  and  that  grave  savage  bore  him  home. 
But  there  was  one  who  watched  for  their  return, 
And  half  divined  a  coming  agony, 
That  neared  her  with  a  sure  slow  step,  lik .  fate. 
Oh  could  her  throbbing  heart  throb  life  to  his ! 
Marble,  not  death,  has  love  touched  into  life. 
Silently  dead !  not  even  a  farewell  word ! 
No  answer !  horrible,  dark,  dreamless  sleep ! 
The  blank  dead  loneliness  that  circled  her 
She  could  not  dwindle,  and  endure.     Her  soul 
Had  no  long  banishment  of  waiting  years. 
Life's  giant  secret  trembled  at  her  lips. — 
Oh  for  one  instant  to  endow  her  son  ! 
To  robe  him  with  her  ermine,  breathe  to  him 
One  dying  promise  of  love's  deathlessness ! 
Then  grief  arose  wrapping  blank  night  around 
The  orphan  until  sleep,  like  low  wild  strain 
Of  melancholy  music,  stole  his  thoughts, 
Sighing  him  down  a  river  of  repose. 


He  woke  to  strange  bewilderment. 

Dead !  dead ! 
The  slow  recurrence  of  that  crushing  word 
Fell  steadily  upon  his  shivering  soul, 


Mt.  27] 


GRIEF 


203 


As  waves  in  dim  gray  ghostly  northern  seas 

Hammer  against  their  ice  walls.     Thus,  all  through 

The  unlinked  moments  of  that  shattered  day 

A  sunken  look,  as  though  of  madness,  warned 

Aloof  all  sympathy.     If  they  had  come 

With  paltry  talk  of  pity,  with  pretence 

Of  sorrow  wept  away  and  half  consoled, 

Sternly  repellant  iciness  had  struck 

And  curdled  colder  through  him.     Memory 

Of  festivals  spurns  meager  charity, 

Starving  alone.     The  fort,  the  plain,  the  chase, 

The  crash,  the  death-like  pictures  on  the  air 

Of  deserts,  rose  and  fell  unreal  to  him; 

Slow  blending  to  a  void,  a  heavy  void 

That  clasped  and  crushed  him  like  a  prison  dream, — 

So  hours  toiled  up  to  look  on  drearier  wastes. 

Weird  moonlight  on  the  prairie  5.     On  the  grave 

Alone,  alone  he  sank  and  wept  away, 

Each  fondly  treasured  hope  of  life-long  love. 

Wasted  with  tears,  swifter  than  tears.     Then  sobs 

Followed,  as  moaning  winds  come  after  rains. 

Passionate  grief,  utterly  desolate! 

When  man  despairs  with  manhood's  stern  despair, 

There  comes  an  airy  dagger  of  a  thought. 

With  hint  of  instant  keen  release,  and  some 

Have  sheathed  this  ice  within  their  colder  breast 

When  they  have  proved  and  scorned  this  beggar,  life. 

Fearful  release !  whisper  it  not  to  him ! 

But  whisper,  whisper  winds,  how  future  suns 

Shall  draw  sweet  blossoms  out  of  wintriness. 

Poor  boy !  he  cannot  cleave  through  dark  to  light. 

He  di'oops  amid  the  marble  ghastliness 


f! 


^! 


iff 


■I 


204 


ri^ro  WORLDS. 


[1855 


^ 


Of  ruined  shrines  where  faith  found  shelter  late. 

Poor  boy !  may  he  find  sympathy !     Till  now, 

His  life  was  stellar  as  far  western  plains, 

Where  golden  poppies  sprinkle  golden  soil. 

Amazing  timid  spring  with  bounteousness. — 

One  violet  eve  the  pale  sierras  blushed 

Shame  for  waste  winter,  love  for  summer  near. 

But  ah  I  a  traitor  yet  was  lingering  there; 

A  laggard  storm,  a  sullen  malcontent. 

Nursing  his  lonely  ruthlessness,  till  he 

Felt  shivering  summer  hedge  him  closer  in,  ' 

Then  burst  away  with  lavish  cruelty. 

Leaving  the  hillsides  torn  and  gaunt  and  gray 

With  the  fierce  landslide  and  its  path  of  wreck. 

Full  moonlight  on  the  prairie.     On  the  grave. 

As  if  his  mother's  spirit  gently  there 

Caressed  him,  breathed  the  night  wind  soothingly; 

He  raised  his  wistful  face  that  tears  had  paled, 

AVild  glancing  heavenward,  as  souls  wiU  look 

When  earth  is  blank  of  omens.    Was  there  peace 

Where  proudly  mournful  dwelt  the  lonely  moon, 

That  sad  pale  moon  whose  light  is  memory  ? 

His  mother  taught  him  prayers  by  moonlight;  could 

These  speak  for  him  ?    "  God,  if  thou  hearest  me. 

Why  hast  thou  taken  from  me  all  I  loved  ?  " 

He  listened.     Answer  none.     The  silence  brought 

The  aimless  rippling  of  that  shallow  stream. — 

Stern  Heaven  had  no  reply.     He  must  endure, 

Weary  to  fainting  with  the  waste  of  tears. 

Oh  dull,  cold  Heaven !  cruelly  bitter  cold ! 

To  him  a  ceremonial  friend  that  speaks 

Of  grief  outlived,  and  buys  him  decent  weeds, — 


Mt.  27] 


GRIEF. 


205 


And  that  white  moon,  forlorn  as  soiled  ghost 

Pallid  and  wayworn  on  the  steely  sky, 

He  cursed  her  sorrowful  calm.     His  heart  was  lashed 

With  fierce  rebellion  shifting  to  despair. — 

— I've  stood  beside  the  weary  moaning  sea 

When  every  ship  had  folded  its  white  wings 

To  nestle  with  its  comrades.     Measured  beat 

Of  waves  fell  waste  as  days,  and  years,  and  lives, 

When  hope  has  had  its  sunset.     Far  I  looked 

Beyond,  beyond  the  verge  of  night,  and  still 

One  throng,  one  haste  for  that  brief  sighing  plash, 

Joining  the  long  slow  wail  of  ocean  waves. — 

His  moments  grew  to  such  wide  dreariness. 

Ah !  myriad  love  tones  he  shall  never  hear 
Nor  utter.     Melody  of  mother's  love 
Shall  faintly  die  amid  life's  jar  and  crash. 
No  sister's  arms  around  him  flung,  shall  yet 
Quell  the  insurgent  wildness  of  his  soul 
With  all  the  gentle  pity  of  a  look. 
Yes,  he  must  march  untrammeled  by  a  joy; 
Bare  as  an  athlete.     No  spoiled  nursling  he, 
Toyed  into  unweaned  manhood,  to  become 
A  well  conditioned  child  of  circumstance, 
Bolstered  to  smoothed  respectability. 
Who  fondly  deems  his  feeble  self  a  sage, 
And  gulls  the  world  with  wisdom 


'  11 


^% 


%  V 


I*! 
I 


i 


!  I 


Go  then,  unshielded,  orphaned  innocent!     ^ 
Buy  with  your  heart's  blood  surety  of  distrust, 
— Aye !  there  are  some  stern  lessons  manhood  earns, 
Wrenched  out  of  pain  and  sorrow.     We  must  gain 
Not  flimsy  immortality  of  fame, 


206 


TPFO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


^1 


But  the  high  royalty  of  self-control, 

A  God's  inheritance  of  self-control. 

So  the  soul  stands  amid  its  passion  throngs, 

Like  some  wild  nation's  bold-eyed  orator: 

He  lifts  his  hand ;  men  hush,  listening  him  breathe 

Words  as  of  God.     Ah !  self-control  too  late ! 

Where  wert  thou,  laggard  ally,  while  we  fought? 

What  comfort  now,  when  lost  and  routed  all 

We  moum  our  bravest,  fallen  one  by  one. 

That  should  have  led  us  with  dim  evening  forth 

To  thunder  down  the  hill,  and  shout,  and  catch 

Keen  sunset  on  our  sabres.    We  creep  back 

Seeking  our  dead,  for  torchlight  burial. — 

The  mists  of  midnight  thickened  round  the  grave; 

Dim  cheerless  presages  enshrouded  him. 

Oh  mystery  of  grief !     The  air  was  filled 

With  rustling  silence.     Trembles  musical. 

Of  whispers,  gushing  to  fine  utterance. 

Faded  in  sighs.     Oh  for  one  tone,  from  out 

The  wide  unknown,  to  echo  on  forever, 

From  life's  grand  undervoice  of  melody ! 

But  no !  all  unrevealed,  all  dark,  all  chill, 

All  shadowy  stillness,  like  that  ghostly  plain. 


. 


n. 


DEPARTURK 

Oh !  pearly  are  the  gold-linked  hours  of  youth 
Lit  by  fine  gleams  of  sympathy !     Alas, 
Orphaned  of  these,  life  drags  and  clanks  its  years. 
Rests  but  to  count  such  fetters.     Richard  lived. 


U 


u 


Mt.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


207 


No  love  glance  dwelt  upon  his  industry; 
Nature's  deep  harmonies  were  harshness  all, 
Unguided  to  his  thirsty  heart  by  love. 
A  comrade,  spectral  dimness,  dwelt  with  him, 
Dimness  more  terrible  than  darkness  is. 
To  grope  in  cavern  light — not  light — to  s'cep 
Carefully,  shudderingly,  lest  you  touch 
Something  that  will  with  fleshless  arms  embrace 
Your  form,  and  leap  into  the  void  and  sink 
Forever  ?    Better  blank  forgetfulness ' 

Madness,  crime,  sorrow  to  one  isolate, 
On  these,  life  drifts  an  idle  pageant  by. — 
Caught  on  the  brink  of  torrents  masterful 
Lie  rotting  giant  trunks  whose  graceful  strength 
Could  bear  a  nation's  standard  through  the  fight; 
Pines  that  the  woodman  far  away  descried, 
And  traced  along  the  sighing  winter  woods, 
Then  proudly  smote  them  down,  and  saw  the  sky 
Flash  blue  above,  where  late  the  shadows  hung. — 
Shall  this  young  soul  waste  utterly,  or  shall 
The  maddening  gush  of  life  sweep  it  along  ? 
Or  calm,  majestic,  searching  floods  uplift, 
And  into  seas  eternal  nobly  bear  ? 

He  had  known  starving  pangs:  when  others  whined 

At  lessened  luxury,  he  smiled  contempt. 

His  was  a  strangely  mingled  nature,  all 

A  father's  power,  a  mother's  passion.     She    , 

Was  nurtured  in  the  halls  of  Italy. 

Embrace  less  vestal  than  chaste  moonbeams,  ne'er 

Had  taught  her  heart  the  tremble  of  great  bliss. 

The  breeze  that  lingered  near  her,  fragrance  caught 


^1} 


% 


I 


(I 

il 
i] 

! 


nwnnii 


V  II 


208 


rPVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


From  leagues  of  vliiovards  hung  with  burstin^^  grapes, 

From  orange  flowers  beside  the  golden  fruit. 

Whene'er  at  noonday,  dreaming  pensively, 

She  asked  her  virgin  soul  what  love  might  be, 

Its  depth,  aye  and  its  madness,  she  might  read 

In  dark-eyed  portraits  gravely  studying  her. 

As  if  their  memory  clung  to  that  dim  hall, 

That  race,  whose  old  inheritance  was  love. 

In  her  fair  echo-haunted  land,  all  sounds 

Were  music,  every  sight  was  art.     Her  soul 

Was  throbbing  full  of  unvoiced  melodies;  , 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  gave  their  pictures  back 

To  memory,  stealing  thus  from  every  scene 

A  filmy  semblance  of  their  beauty;  thus 

When  after  exiled  years  were  dreariest. 

One  magic  whisper  could  uncurtain  all 

Those  sunny  streets  and  shadowy  palaces. — 

But  when  she  sat  at  twilight,  all  alone, 

Her  thought  as  vague  as  twilight,  suddenly 

Her  look  dashed  through  the  darkness  to  a  star 

Unknown  until  it  shot,  and  fell,  and  died. 

She  watched  its  vanishing.     Her  eyes  were  filled 

With  softly  darkling  boldness  flashing  far. 

Life  swept  and  broadened  to  eternity; 

Night's  noble  voice  of  silence  spoke  to  her; 

Heart  echoes  answered  back  heroic  vows. 

Oh,  had  you  seen  her  then,  her  white  hands  clasped 

All  proudly  pale,  like  a  scorned  sybil,  scarce 

One  could  have  whispered  of  the  damning  wrongs 

That  murdered  freedom  in  her  fatherland: 

Lest  she  should  pass  and  leave  you  silently. 

Flitting,  a  white  revenge,  from  shade  to  shade, 

And  while  the  tyrant's  guards  were  shuddering, 


'^'. 


\ 


Mr.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


209 


\ 


A  scream  should  ring  along  his  silent  halls  1 
And  she  be  found,  a  kneeling  martyr,  faint 
With  noble  murder,  she  had  dared  to  do. 

Her  father  was  a  dreamy  soul,  he  built 

Proud  schemes  on  fancied  perfectness  of  man. 

Such  scholar  patriot  as  may  be  in  lands 

Where  thinkers  peep  at  life  through  theories. 

In  fondest  parent  converse  with  his  chUd 

He  painted  their  dear  land  an  Arcady; — 

His  calmly  sailing  hopes  touched  golden  sands 

Of  peace,  nor  saw  the  baffling  present,  thick 

With  flashing  gloom  of  toppling  storm  clouds  piled. 

But  the  day  came  at  last,  as  such  days  come. — 

A  thought  had  quivered  like  a  dagger  drawn;    - 

A  thought  and  word  had  stolen  from  man  to  man. 

And  whispers  grew  to  shouts;  the  shout  heaved  on 

Thro'  that  fair  city,  richly  historied, 

Circling  the  palace,  like  the  roar  that  folds  \ 

Crags,  on  the  edges  of  a  cataract. — 

Oh  I  fools  I  fools !  why  came  ye  with  honest  hopes 

Unweaponed,  but  with  cries  for  justice,  blind 

Against  the  steely  hedges  of  a  throne  ? 

The  King  came  forth  upon  the  balcony — 

The  King  came  forth.     Had  he  a  soul  in  him 

To  see  those  pleading  looks  and  not  be  moved  ? 

Then  shouted  they.  Listen,  oh  majesty! 

Our  wrongs  must  speak  I    One  honest  pledge  to  us 

Of  royal  faith  shall  send  us  peaceful  home.         ■ 

Aye!  say  you  so,  my  friends!  answered  the  King, 
I'll  send  you  quicker.    Men !  fire  on  this  mob ! 


i  '*=■ 


H  \.\ 


i  II 
if 


210 


TIVO    WORLDS. 


[Ib66 


-i 


One  breathless,  pulseless  beat  of  time,  and  then 
Expectant  stillness  quivered  with  a  flash 
Of  death's  impassive  enginery,  then  death 
Was  hurled  among  the  men  who  fronted  it. 
And  when  the  smoke  drifted  reluctantly. 
Except  some  corpses,  now  and  then  a  moan, 
And  something  in  the  air  that  said,  Revenge ! 
The  spot  was  left  to  utter  loneliness. 
Calm  stood  the  palace,  with  its  wealth  of  mild 
Madonnas,  shrined  upon  the  carven  walls. 
Sweet  faces,  saddened  with  the  thought  of  death. 


Not  thus  the  contest  ended.     Thro*  the  streets. 
Were  waiUng  cries  of  grief,  that  wrought  themselves 
To  cries  for  vengeance.    Arming  hastily 
With  hasty  arms.     Tumultuous  gatherings. 
Blood-maddened  crowds.     Counsels  precipitate. 
Bold  deeds.     Each  house  a  fortress.     Every  square 
A  battle-field.     Heroes  unknown  till  now. 
DeUcate  women  brave  as  bravest  men — 
Women  bereaved,  fiercer  than  fiercest  men. 
Yet  a  few  words,  a  little  yielding  then. 
One  honest  purpose  could  have  spared  this  blood — 
Joy  then  in  homes  where  pale  and  silent  now 
Mothers  were  wailing  horror.     Yet  kings  sit 
Wrapped  in  the  heritage  of  self  and  pride, 
And  lying  to  their  false  luxurious  souls, 
Call  desolation,  order;  ruin,  peace. 

Her  father  was  the  noblest  noble  there,  "• 

Among  the  highest  of  the  counselors. 
Now,  there  was  fear  among  them,  as  a  child 
Shudders  along  the  crinkling  smooth  of  waves, 


- 


6 


** 


ti 


Mt.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


211 


Ere  the  assaulting  j^ale  comes  thick  and  fast. 

The  Marquis,  pleading,  came  before  the  King, — 

"  O  spare  them !  man  of  this  our  grand  old  town  I 

Brief  is  a  blood-gained  victory,  and  soon 

The  current  sweeps  to  ruin.     You  will  learn 

That  eddies  struggle  vainly  against  tides. 

]5ack  to  brave  faith !     Nobly  go  forth  to  them, 

Say  you  have  erred !    Oh  I  never  such  a  shout 

As  then  shall  seal  their  new-born  loyalty. 

But  if  they  hear  not,  then  in  God's  name  die ! 

Nor  let  assassin-haunted  years  creep  on." 

"  Marquis,"  the  King  replied,  "  came  you  to  court 

More  often,  you  would  use  more  courtly  words — 

We  pardon  you,  for  ancient  services. 

And  that  fair  daughter,  whom  we  favor  much. 

As  for  these  noisy  fools,  we'll  have  the  streets 

Swept  of  their  idling.    We  have  charged  our  troops 

To  burn  and  level,  for  we  need  a  site 

For  our  new  hall  of  sculpture."     Sneeringly  ^ 

He  spoke,  but  fear  played  round  his  ashen  lips. 

Killing  the  sneer. 

Fiercer  the  conflict  raged       / 
Without,  a  sound  of  myriad  utterance  blent, 
Where  shouts  with  shrieks  and  curses  mingling  rose, 
And  roars  with  death  shots. 

"  Oh !  God  pardon  me, 
'*  That  I  have  dallied  thus !    Tyrant,  I  go ! " 
And  thro'  the  panic  strode  with  step  so  firm 
None  dared  to  stay  him.     Then  he  flung  his  life 
On  battle-surges,  learning  now  at  last, 
How  the  Crusader's  blood  flowed  restlessly 
Beneath  his  calmness. 


212 


TPVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Ah  how  vainly  vain ! 
This  dainty  Freedom  would  not  tread  on  blood, — 
So  the  revolt  was  crushed. 

Was  it  for  this, 
The  pageantry  of  gorgeous,  martial  shows? — 
They  could  not  know,  the  people,  drunken  with 
Magnificence,  all  thrilling  with  the  crash 
Of  military  music,  dazed  with  show 
Of  sabres,  plumes  and  flashing  cavalry, 
The  purpose  of  this  two-edged  instrument 
Driving  to  deeper  slavery.     Like  fate,  , 

Steady  and  ruthless  on  the  squadrons  marched, 
And  left  behind  them  maidens  whose  white  innocence 
Felt  the  swift  bullet  as  their  earUest  pang; 
And  silver,  reverend  age  all  unrevered. 
Fair  children  too !  oh  waste !     And  yet  there  stared 
That  ever  glorious  heaven  overhead. 
No  blasting  vengeance  fell.     Damnable  fate  I 
Master  of  Misery.     I  cannot  look 
With  stony  eyes  of  monster  calmness  on 
These  horrors  of  hell;  they  madden,  madden  me ! 
Oh  God !  thou  wrongest  us  with  this  devil  world. 

Night  and  despair. 

'Neath  the  dim  palaces, 
Some  trembling  ones  with  torches  sought  their  dead. 
Silence,  unquivered  by  their  whispers,  harked 
For  the  faint  terror  of  a  distant  scream.— 
Oh  bitter  hopelessness  of  nol>le  hope ! 
Our  cresting  souls  touch  immortality 
Then  slide  and  sink  to  bitterness  again. 
Perhaps  the  Marquis  thus  had  yielded,  died, 
But  as  his  thoughts  voyaged  a  starless  waste, 


. 


A) 


' 


S 


T 

r 

N 


^T.  27] 


DErAKTUKK. 


21  :j 


., 


Sudden,  love  anchored  liim  to  deeper  fuitli. 
My  daughter !     Oh  if  some  stray  hope  can  say 
God  is  not  ever  thus,  she  shall  be  saved. 
Then  his  wild  haste  was  'ware  of  forms  like  hers 
Lying  all  stiU.     He  shuddered,  hurrying  on. 

No  glimmer  in  his  palace  halls.     The  dark 

Made  him  recoil  in  terror.     But  as  he 

Came  near,  a  man,  a  friend  that  lurked  within 

The  shadow,  met  him.     She  is  safe,  we  wait, 

I  wait.     They  entered  secretly,  where  she 

With  steady  tearlessness  had  watched.     She  thought 

Her  woman's  heart  all  steeled  heroical, 

A  shield,  not  to  be  shielded.     Now  her  veil 

Of  sternness  fell  away  in  blissful  tears. 

Child!    Father!     Oh  fond  instant!     They  have  met. 

Safety  is  sure  but  for  the  moment  now. 

And  fly  we  must !     Yet  death  were  easier  far 

Than  brave  enduring  of  a  hopeless  life !  I 

Hopeless?    Nay  hopeful!     Exiles,  we  may  wake. 

Urge,  goad  our  nation's  sleep,  a  giant's  sleep. 

Calm  on  their  flight  those  grand  old  portraits  looked — 

Perhaps  they  saw  far  off  a  brighter  day. 

Perhaps  they  cared  not,  knowing  that  events, 

And  all  the  vexed  machinery  of  a  world, 

Are  nothing,  if  not  triers  of  the  soul. 

— I've  dreamed  or  known  a  tale  of  one  who  ran 

The  scourging  gauntlet  of  a  life;  and  friends, 

And  foes,  and  hopes,  and  fears,  and  circumstance, 

And  his  own  fiery  passions  stood,  and  smote 

Him  as  he  passed.     But  when  he  struggled  thro' 

And  plunged  his  lacerated  soul  in  death 


II 


: 


i 


214 


T^O    IVOKLDS. 


[1855 


I'   i 


He  climbed  upon  the  further  brink  and  saw 

Eternity. — 

And  there  stood  growing  to  a  God-Hke  calm, 
Himself  the  peer  of  any  crowned  one  there. — 

They  fled  in  sad  perplexity  of  night, 

Through  streets  where  many  a  deed  of  blood  was  done, 

Ghastly  with  faint  historic  terrors, — now 

Ghastlier  with  jDresent  horror  of  the  dead; 

Protected  by  the  friend  that  helped  their  flight, 

A  boldly-thoughtful,  self-reliant  fi'icnd.  , 

A  traveler  from  a  newer  world  he  came 
To  look  on  history.     Europe  is  history 
To  us,  the  children  o^  the  present.     We 
Were  heirs  to  what  they  toil  and  err  for  still. 
Richer  than  dreams  were  those  fair  treasuries 
Of  art,  and  clouds  of  golden  romance,  kept 
In  memory  of  sunsets  unforgot. 
But  there,  as  one  in  ruddy  autumn  strays 
Through  western  forests  flaming  gorgeously, 
With  purple  rich  as  wine  that  holds  the  sun. 
With  fruity  orange,  crimson  like  a  blush, 
When  cheeks  reflect  the  glow  of  ardent  lips, 
As  one  thus  wandering  not  beguile  1  from  thought 
That  spring  and  hope  are  fairer,  sees  beneath 
Dead  leaves  the  quivering  pureness  of  a  fount; — 
He  found  a  fresh  soul  'neath  the  gorgeousness. 
The  ripened  splendors  of  a  fading  land. 

Quick  as  the  light  that  strikes  from  soul  to  soul 
Love-kindled  fires  die  never,  never.     Even 
From  sadly  quenching  tears  their  ashes  find 
Strange  and  rekindling  life.     Not  so  to  these. 


JEj.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


215 


To  them  dawn  deepened  into  sunny  day — 
Love  sweeping  thro'  their  heaven  like  a  sun. 


A  city  by  the  sea-side,  proudly  fair, 

Gave  refuge.     There  the  Marquis  loved  to  learn 

A  soothing  sadness  in  the  cadenced  waves, 

Their  sweet  low  mui*mur  soothed  his  soul,  and  then 

The  sprinkling  sparkles  made  him  glad  again. 

Ever  beneath  their  brilliant  surface-play 

And  flash  and  glitter,  grew  the  undertone 

Of  vastness,  as  below  the  gayest  life, 

Eternity  speaks  thro'  the  intervals. 

Breezes  said,  peace,  to  him.     Waves  sped  to  kiss. 

Kocks  told  of  firm  endurance.     Waves  and  breeze, 

Of  seas  and  skies  all  tranquil  after  storms. — 

Ah,  transient,  traitor  calm !  brief,  false  delight ! 

Betrayed  !     A  group  of  seeming  fishermen, 

Idle  as  noon,  were  lounging  there,  and  songs 

Droned  into  fitful  chorus  drowsily. 

They  stole  upon  him  in  his  reverie. 

Seized,  bound  him,  dragged  him  where  a  lazy  bark 

Seemed  waiting  for  a  wind.     Then  spread  white  sails, 

And  swifter  than  a  sea-bird,  vanished  far, 

O'er  the  horizon,  and  were  seen  no  more. 

A  child  was  gathering  pebbles  by  the  shore, 

Waves  freshened  them  to  gems.     He  saw  che  deed. 

Athwart  his  innocence  a  shadow  fell, — 

A  first  wrong  chiUed  his  spirit,  and  his  tale 

Went  murmuring  thro'  the  city :  hardly  waked 

Surprise  or  pity  in  that  land  of  wrongs. 


m 


ffl 


i 


But  she,  his  daughter,  oh !  a  tenderest  calm 
Effaced  all  tremors  of  distrust,  and  love 


'  -'  1 


f»  I' 


216 


TWO    WORLDS. 


tl855 


Was  sinking,  wavering,  deepening  thro'  her  soul. 

As  suns  thro'  placid  waters.     The  delight 

Of  listening  while  a  lover  sj^eaks,  she  proved. 

Nor  knew  that  dear,  dear  whisper  yet  was  love. 

The  stranger  told  her  of  his  noble  land, 

A  queenly  Virgin  for  the  manliest  love. 

A  Land  he  worshiped  with  a  rapturous  love; 

Grand  with  the  gloom  of  forest's  mysteries. 

Grand  with  the  sweep  of  billowy  boundless  plains, 

Surging  on  westward  like  a  rolling  sea. 

Hopes  of  a  world  are  launched  and  sailing  there. 

And  then  a  legendary  tale  of  love 

He  told,  of  Nature's  sympathies  unseen, — 

For  not  all  aimless  are  the  wandering  airs, 

The  North  flies  wooing  to  the  sunny  South, 

Flower  to  sweet  floweret  nods  and  becks  and  bends. 

With  tender  look  and  tone  love-musical. 

The  stranger  drew  such  symbols  from  the  scenes 

Of  home.     Thus  covertly  his  story  plead 

For  him  who  told  it.     But  for  her,  whom  Love 

Had  guarded  as  some  latest  dearest  prize. 

When  lesser  hearts  were  vanquished,  now  she  feels 

New  thoughts  were  nestling  in  her  inmost  heart. 

His  gaze  was  on  her,  but  she  dared  not  lift 

Timid  concealment  from  her  eyes,  and  show 

Another,  what  she  shrank  herself  to  know. 

Could  this  be  love,  young  love  ?    She  blushed,  as  clouds, 

Belated  night-clouds  unarrayed  for  day. 

Blush  at  intrusive  sunrise. 

All  his  soul 
Was  trembling  at  his  lips.     They  had  no  voice 


*> 


t 


855 


^T.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


217 


«^ 


T 


\ 


For  such  emotion.     These  are  moments  when 
We  strip  us  of  our  poverty  of  words, 
And  let  our  unrobed  spirits  meet  and  olasp 
In  a  voiceful  silence.     Silence  oh  how  sweet ! 
That  shall  be  breathed  away  by  silver  tones, 
Waking  the  matinal  of  purer  life. 

Across  the  poace  of  that  fair  moment's  pause. 
There  came  an  evil-omened  messenger, 
Such  as  ill  tidings  always  find  themselves. 
To  tell  her  father's  capture,  but  his  child. 
Perplexed  in  mazes  of  his  pitiful 
And  droning  tale,  was  lured  along,  till  doubt 
Grew  lurid  sudden  with  harsh  certainty. 

Shoreward  she  fled,  not  swift  as  her  despair. 
It  was  no  idly  cruel  tale :  she  looked 
To  far  horizons  where  hope  ever  files, 
For  sunlit  gleams  of  his  departing  sail. 
As  mariners,  when  shores  are  fading  fast, 
Watch  the  white  waving  of  a  loved  one's  hand.— 
Gone !  gone !  the  careless  ripples  had  erased 
His  struggling  footsteps.     Nought  but  happiness 
Smiled  on  the  dimpling  face  of  ocean. 
What  mockery  is  other's  bliss,  when  we 
Mourn  unto  death !     Oh  futile  exile  now! 
Now  icy  darkening  dread  swept  endlessly 
Down  unknown  futures  that  she  dimly  saw; 
Such  voids  of  darkness  %v  here  the  soul  may  grope, 
And  doubt  its  God,  and  doubt  if  death  be  peace.  ' 
Alone  !  she  moaned  it  to  the  winds  and  waves, 
Alone !  came  sadly  echoing  down  the  winds, 
Alone!  each  slender  wavelet  sighing  said.— 


ill 


\ 


ill 


■< 


Hi 


218 


TWO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


\ 


Alone  but  for  an  instant;  by  her  side 

A  deep  voice  whispered,  crushing  to  deep  calm 

Its  passion,  bringing  hope  to  her  despair. 

His  kind  permitted  manly  firm  embrace 

Protected  her,  and  then  those  words  were  breathed 

Which  he  who  has  not  said,  and  she,  who  has 

Not  heard,  or  dreamed,  and  longed  to  hear,  may  wait 

For  new  creation  in  some  other  life, 

In  this  all  undeveloped.     Sweet  is  love. 

When  beauty,  queenly  proud  and  coldly  fair, 

Learns  first  its  womanhood,  and  tenderness, 

And  yields  to  love  that  knows  no  king  or  queen, 

But  greater  love.     And  beautiful  is  love, 

When  happy  lovers  stealing  out  at  eve 

Sigh  out  tL  )     ^  ft  vows  underneath  the  moon, 

She  smiling  o.      lem  with  her  silver  smile, 

Cheerer  of  love  for  ages.     Sweet  is  love 

Whose  calmful  rest  and  placid  gentleness 

Flows  steady  on  or  dallies  sunnily, 

But  oh !  how  doubly  dearest  dear  is  love, 

The  refuge  of  a  lone  and  banished  soul. 

Exiled  from  bj^-gone  bhss,  and  shivering  on 

The  cold  world's  edge;  cold,  cold,  ah  cold  to  her! 

She  trembled  back  to  hope  that  waited  her. 

Flinging  sweet  sunlight  even  through  her  tears. 

The  myriad  ripples  crowded  up,  and  cast 

Tribute  of  sympathy.     The  ocean  sees 

So  much  despair  of  hopeless  drifting  wrecks, 

Such  cruel  selfishness,  such  dull  dismay, 

That  it  must  long  to  look  on  happiness 

Like  this;  not  joy,  but  pity,  rescue,  love. 

Then,  as  she  saw  her  love-illumined  soul. 

It  dazzled  her;  at  every  word,  her  heart 


155 


Mr.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


219 


lit 


Throbbed  to  be  worthy  its  eternity. 
His  voice  was  peace  beneath  his  burning  words. 
Alone — no  more,  for  love  was  clasping  her; 
Love !  winds  came  murmuring  and  breathing  it ! 
Love  !  it  was  this  the  thronging  wavelets  plashed ! 
Love !  farther,  deeper,  fainter,  echoing  on. 
And  knocking  at  her  spirit's  silent  shrine. 

Who  would  not  change  such  sorrow  for  such  joy  ? 
And  ah !  when  we  touch  back  o'er  happy  hours, 
Waking  again  their  well-known  melody, 
Again  we  see  that  troj)ic  violet  fade. 
Again  that  tall  chill  shadow's  steady  march. 
Light  after  night,  night  after  light  again. — 
So  by  their  rapture  sat  the  angel-fiend. 
Grief  sat  with  folded  arm^  till  they  were  calm. 
And  whispered,  ye  are  one,  and  both  are  mine. 
Gravely  they  sought  through  dim  perplexity. 
Follow  ?  we  might,  but  that  were  desperate.  i 

I've  heai'd  the  tyrant  looked  upon  you  once. 
Perhaps  he'd  make  conditions,  that  you  both 
Would  spurn.     Your  race  is  noble,  old  in  fame. 
His  safety  lies  in  this,  the  King  might  fear 
Your  father's  friends,  who  still  have  influence. 
Patience  he  taught  with  many  words  like  these. 
Patience,  that  poor  thin  curtain  of  despair. 
So  might  she  hope,  and  hope,  till  poignant  grief 
Should  blunt  and  tarnish  like  a  patriot's  blade, 
Waiting  heroic  days  that  shall  not  be. 

Not  many  days  had  passed  when  came  a  friend. 
The  same  ill-omened  friend;  for  once,  he  brought 
Tidings  but  half  of  sadness,  'twas  a  scroll 
A  seeming  peasant  gave  him  secretly. 


i 


220' 


riVO    WORLDS, 


[1855 


!    I 


"  My  death  they  dared  not.     I  shall  see  thee  yet, 
Oh  daughter  of  my  heart !     This  is  my  doom : 
Unnumbered  years  of  prison.     Exile  then. 
Trust  in  the  stranger,  dear  one.     He  has  told 
A.  love  as  true  as  faith  is.     Go  with  him 
To  that  young  kindly  refuge-land  of  his. 
There  wait  me,  for  my  long  revengeful  years 
Are  passed,  annuled  in  hope.     Children,  depart." 

I've  looked  o'er  pathless  woods,  shadowed  and  dim. 

To  one  white  peak  as  lonely  as  a  thought, 

Rosy  and  luminous  at  dawn  and  eve. 

Queening  sublimely  o'er  the  solemn  pines, — 

Then  down  columnar  vistas  deep  and  dark. 

Where  there  was  sunless  silence,  league  on  league, — 

At  last  in  moonlit  glory  overhead 

Suddenly  shone  the  mount  like  God's  calm  face. — 

Ah!  shall  these  loving  ones  then-meet  again  I 

Since  that  first  hour  of  passion  and  despair, 

Then  lit  with  heaven  thro'  its  luridness. 

Her  lover  came  not  as  a  lover.     Friend 

Was  calmer,  almost  closer.     Tenderly 

He  watched,  and  cheered,  and  roused,  and  quieted; 

Soothed  when  her  flashing  looks  indignant  came. 

Oh  God !  I  cannot  bear  this  wrong !  this  wrong ! 

Then  tears  that  burned  like  blood  burst  fiercely  vain. 

Grief  was  the  master;  yet  the  drowning  crush 

Of  certainty  was  better  than  despair. 

Life  they  had  left  him.     Years  and  exile;  these 

Wf*i'e  pain,  yet  pain  we  scorn  and  bear. 

And  love, — 
Thither  her  soul  bent  drooping,  and  its  warmth 


855 


Ml.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


221 


Was  sweeter  than  its  shelter.     Warmth  that  drew 
All  blossoms  back,  unfolding  tear-bedimmed, 
And  fairer  for  the  vanishing  of  tears. 
Had  love  not  been  ?    Oh  God  I  that  could  not  be » 
Love  was,  and  faith,  not  dim  and  utter  blank. 
Her  soul  went  wandering  down  the  labyrinth 
Conscious,  yet  careless  be  they  thorns  or  flowers. 

Thus  he  began  his  tale  of  love;  a  tale 
That  life  shall  daily  wreathe  with  episode. 
He  saw  her  first  enhaloed;  oh  how  fail- 
Is  woman  who  forgets  herself  in  prayer ! 
—It  chanced  he  entered  out  of  sunlight,  where 
Dazzled  with  marbled  vastness,  dome  on  dome,' 
He  found  the  somber,  spacious,  vaulted  aisles,' 
Silent  and  solemn  with  the  thought  of  God, 
As  when  in  forest  temples  life  grows  wide. ' 

Then  sUence  felt  the  rustling  of  a  tone 
Soft  as  the  shiver  of  moonlighted  leaves, 
And  voices  linked  them  to  it  as  it  rose,  ' 
Sweetness  embodied  into  power.     Deep 
And  pouring  grander  surges  on  and  on, 
Till  sudden  as  some  angel  messenger. 

Again  the  one  sweet  utterance  soared  up, 

Poised  over  awfulness,  telling  of  faith 

So  gently  keen  and  piercing  delicate. 

It  found  the  guarded  fountain  of  his' tears; 

And  these  came  purely  as  a  child's.     He  shrank 

Back  to  a  chapel  where  a  woman  knelt. 

With  few  brief  bitter  words,  self-scorning  words, 

He  showed  his  soul  to  God. 


' 


1  }■■■ 


I 


III 


222 


TWO    WORLDS 


[1855 


And  turning  thence 
He  met  one  glance  from  that  fair  kneeling  one. 
Dark  eyes  met  his  with  pitying  earnestness, 
And  knew  him  nobler  than  his  wild  remorse. — 
Thus  he  began  his  tale  of  love  for  her. 

So  they  were  joined  in  maiTiage,  sadly,  yet 

With  hope  and  joy  that  needed  not  be  gay. 

The  raven  presence  of  that  grave  old  friend 

Croaked  its  congratulations,  all  presage 

Of  grief  in  sorrow  lost  to  them — and  then — 

A  last  farewell  to  Italy.     To  streets 

Rich  with  the  shadows  of  their  palaces; 

To  sunny  shores,  where  life  is  laughed  away; 

To  churches  jewel  bright  as  fairy  caves; 

A  last  farewell,  not  all  unanswered  yet. 

To  that  blue-green  entrancing,  murmuring  sea, 

Beloved  of  poets  since  Homer;  where  the  hopes 

Of  earliest  man  were  launched,  awhile  to  float 

And  spread  their  sails  to  softer  gales,  before 

Their  ocean  ventures.     Bitterly,  farewell ! 

For  bitterer  than  parting  is  the  thought 

Of  wrong  that  parts  us;  of  our  traitor  friends, 

Of  cowards,  treason,  and  ingratitude. 

Westward  they  went  where  no  dead  past  could  come 

To  bring  them  burdens  more  than  they  could  bear. 

His  was  a  soldier's  life;  on  the  frontier 

Was  fascinating  peril.     Dwelling  there 

Alone,  with  nothing  but  each  other's  love, 

God  gave  them  a  dear  child,  a  son,  in  whom 

Each  saw  the  other's  image  glorified. 

Not  wholly  hapi\v;  thoughts  would  come  uncalled 


55 


^T.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


223 


;ii 


' 


In  ii  nderer  moments,  of  that  prisoned  one. 
Bu'c  years  will  pass,  and  life  will  fade,  and  time 
Was  linking  on  liis  iron  round  for  him. 

At  last  came  sudden  sweet  bewilderment 

Of  freedom,  when  all  hope  seemed  desperate. 

Released  he  stood,  all  hesitant,  as  one 

Who  looks  from  crags  where  rich  vales  smiling  lie 

But  mists  and  surging  clouds  dawn-lit  with  rose 

Are  enviously  beautiful  between. 

Ah !  were  it  then  another  prison  dream  ? 

They  met.    It  was  then  true,  the  blessed  dream  ? 
No  more  to  end  in  maddening  tears;  no  more 
The  cruel  bitterness  of  vision  shone 
Upon  his  prison  wall,  to  fade  with  day. 
Their  treasured  fondness  softly  rained  on  him ; 
Soft  came  love  touches,  sweet  a  daughter's  kiss. 
Sweet,  manly  cherishing,  and  dearer  yet  < 

That  shyly  playful  infantile  respect. 
A  child  for  weary  age !     Ah,  worn  away 
Were  manhood's  fresher  graces,  and  harsh  lines 
Wrought  by  the  chisel  on  his  prison  walls, 
Had  writ  themselves  in  wrinkles  on  his  face. 
But  smooth  broad  skies  were  over  him  at  last, 
And  smiles  responsive  to  his  children's  smiles 
Calmed  him  to  reverend  beauty.     Now  not  less 
He  loved  his  much-loved  land,  but  life  had  taught 
A  martyr  patience.     Ee  had  torn  his  heart 
With  vulture  fury,  clanking  at  his  chain 
To  bitter  waiting;  as  he  paused,  lot  prayed. 
In  nights  of  watching,  angels  came  to  him, 
And  down  far  narrowing  vistas  slowly  led. 


22A 


TPf^o  ivoK/.ns. 


[1855 


hi 


% 


>' ; 


Madness  was  tamed  at  last  to  hope  and  faith, 
Cycles  count  brief  beside  eternity, 
And  years  are  nought,  and  God  is  calmly  true, 
And  light  is  born  to  be  a  victor,  still. 

A  noble  presence  his;  a  brave  firm  soul. 

That  grief  had  proved,  but  crushed  not.     Dignity 

Of  thought  too  stern,  as  of  some  granite  front 

Where  storms  have  wintered,  yet  its  purjile  walls 

Wait  but  for  level  suns  and  kindlier  beams 

To  wave  with  gentle  aspens  tender  green. 

Oh !  sweet  to  live  again  fresh  childhood  o'er 

With  that  young  comrade  now  so  doubly  his. 

No  music  like  his  childish  questioning 

(Young  romance  dawning  in  devouring  eyes) 

Of  the  old  lands  of  Art  and  History, 

Of  the  old  plains  of  Syria  or  of  Greece, 

The  battle-fields  of  Marathon  and  Troy, 

Plains  lone  as  ours,  but  far  more  desolate, 

For  theirs  is  solitude  deserted,  ours 

Unvisited,  save  by  long  moving  herds. 

Thus  picturing  on,  he  told  of  ancient  fanes, 

Mrirble,  and  nobly  set  on  marble  hills. 

Of  marble  islands  in  a  dazzling  sea, 

Homes  of  bright  gods,  whose  temples  saw  the  sun 

At  eve,  when  every  vale  was  dim  with  night 

Inevitable,  and  at  morn,  ere  light 

Inevitable,  conquered  gloom.     And  then 

He  spoke  of  goddess  statues,  marble  cold, — 

Else  we  might  hate  mortality, — and  forms 

Whose  saintly  distance,  love,  not  passion  roused, 

And  pictures,  where  some  brilliant  scene  was  staid 

Aglow  with  finer  splendors  than  its  own; 


■ 


55 


Mv.  27] 


DEPARTURE. 


225 


And  portraits,  where  like  sunbeam,  genius  looked 

Thro'  robes  of  hfe,  to  know  and  stamp  the  man 

World  without  end,  a  slave,  or  hero  still. 

And  then  he  stirred  the  boy  to  fervidness 

Of  pure  ambition  with  his  histories. 

How  noble  men,  his  sires,  had  writ  their  names 

Aloft  on  hopes,  as  Christian  voyagers 

Mark  symbol  crosses  in  the  wilderness. 

He  taught  him  too  the  poets  of  Italy, 

Most  sadly  musical  voice  of  the  past. 

Dearest  the  boy  loved  Tasso,  and  would  dream 

Himself  a  pilgrim  warrior,  pure  and  true, 

Like  Tancred,  pui'e  as  love,  and  true  as  faith. 

Oh  trebly  happy  childhood!     Age  bestowed 
Its  lessons  from  the  past;  that  shadowy  past 
^Perhaps  had  stood  'twixt  him  and  life,  a  veil 
Rich  tapestried  with  splendid  pageantry; — 
But  a  brave  present,  and  its  manliness 
His  father  taught.     See  how  the  living  stand 
In  onward  fronts  of  battle.     Plains  behind 
Are  strewed  with  corpses  where  our  own  shall  lie 
When  life  is  fought  away.     Watch  and  behold, 
In  faint  weird  light  that  comes  before  the  moon 
They  lie,  far  scattered;  men,  heroes  perchance. 
Forgotten.     Know,  my  son,  he  said,  that  we 
Men  of  to-day  are  good  and  bad,  are  mean 
And  great,  no  more,  no  less,  than  all  that  were 
Before,  and  are  to  be.     Regret  not  then 
Past  days,  nor  waste  thy  soul  in  longings  vague. 
None  nobler  have  been,  may  be,  than  thou  may'st. 
To-day  is  mightier  than  eternities. 


W 


'■: 


?.26 


TIVO    WORLDS. 


[1856 


I 


But  beautifully  hovering  ever  near, 

His  mother's  spirit,  and  her  presence  dwelt 

Most  gc'ntly  merciful,  with  sheltering  arms. 

Oh !  she  would  guard  him  from  the  cruelty 

Of  slow,  of  sad,  of  difficult  return 

liack  to  tlie  paths  his  soul  was  planted  in. 

Touched  by  hope's  prophet  wand,  she  saw  for  him 

The  stately  grandeur  of  a  noble  mind, 

To  claim  dominion  on  its  wakening. 

Such  were  these  boyhood's  years,  love  sentineled. 

Life  is  not  wasteful  of  its  happy  hours. 
Brief  placid  days,  calm  and  pathetic  rest. 
The  grandsire  knew,  ere  death  came  peacefulest. 
Death,  Lethe  of  the  long  dark  bitter  years. 
Death,  Life's  quick,  clear,  bold,  sure  interpreter. 

Then  came  the  orphan  horror  of  strange  fate; 
As  when  a  slumberer,  starry  canopied, 
Startled  to  waking  by  some  nameless  thrill, 
Wakes  prisoner  'mid  dusky  savage  forms, 
That  bend  and  glide  before  his  startled  eyes. 
Slowly  checked  heart-beats  tremble  to  new  life, 
Void  outstretched  arms  grope  slow  to  new  embracOj 
Slow  chime  new  voices  with  departed  tones, 
And  dreary  to  the  boy  were  wanderings 
To  seek  from  lower  levels  friendly  draughts. 
Love  sprang  so  sparkling  from  his  native  earth, 
So  eager  fresh,  that  kindly  pity  seemed 
Only  less  bitter  than  indifference; 
And  manhood  came  with  hasty  harshness  on, 
Exhausted  with  its  own  rebelliousness. 


. 


1855 


Mt.  27] 


PASSION, 


227 


There  f^rew  a  longinpf  in  his  houI  for  peace, 
Peace  in  that  cahning  South,  his  mother's  home. 
A  thicket  present  urged  him  back;  he  longed 
To  bask  in  suns  that  ripen  orange  blooms, 
To  gaze  on  seas  deep  blue  and  tremulous, 
To  soothe  dead  grief  with  Art  that  cannot  die, 
To  leave  the  future  blank  awhile,  and  learn 
Content,  at  least  control,  silent  and  stern. 

Friends  too  there  were,  and  words  of  kindliness 
Had  simply  come  from  him  who  herited 
His  grandsire's  rank,  and  old  memorial  halls. 
Such  cherished  longings  came  most  musical, 
And  called  his  doubting  soul.     Come !     Follow  us ! 
Vain  are  tumultuous  days;  vain  owlish  nights, 
Idle  is  bustling  under  steely  skies, 
-^Ignoble  progress,  soulless  energy. 
Better  be  cradled  on  a  tideless  sea. 
The  old  world  has  wh  t  we  are  striving  for.  ( 

Then  yielding  bitterly,  alone  he  went— 
Went  sailing  eastward,  flying  to  the  Past. 


II 


ni. 


PASSION. 

Marquis.— The  hour  for  council  now.     I  leave  you,  sir; 

Pardon  this  hasty  welcome  till  we  meet. 

Then  I  may  urge  and  prove  its  earnestness. 

Meanwhile,  I  give  you  to  a  fairer  guide. 

My  wife  will  show  you  thro'  the  galleries: 

You  are  as  near  allied  as  we  to  these 

Herited  splendors.     For  an  hour,  adieu ! 


^  >■  1 


228 


TIVO    WOK'LDS. 


[1855 


rl  it 


Beatrice. — 'Tis  best  your  flush  of  wonder  first  should  fall 

Upon  the  noblest  works,  and  afterward 

Give  quiet  thought  to  lesser  things  of  grace. 

First  I  will  dazzle  you  with  Titian's  glow — 

A  glorious  crash  shall  rouse  our  sympathy; 

Then  through  that  golden  thrill  and  radiance, 

Shall  enter  pureness  delicately  sweet; 

Calmness  of  tender  maiden  majesty.. 

A  Raphael  dreamed  her  whom  we  idolize. 

The  pageant  chorus  of  the  Veronese 

Shall  crowd  our  vision  next:  we'll  follow  thus 

The  changes  of  a  music-fantasy. 

\They  pcuis  into  the  Oallery.l 


Eichard. — I  ask  a  sadder  pleasure  first. 
A  portrait  of  my  mother,  ere  she  fled. 


You  have 


Beatrice. — I  longed  to  ,^how  you  this,  but  dared  not  dim 

My  welcome.     Oh !  I  love  that  sybil  face ! 

She  is  the  guardian  saint  of  all  my  dreams ! 

That  portrait  veiled  is  hers.     Poor  boy,  he  weeps ! 

I  thought  him  cold  to  our  warm  greeting.     No ! 

This  deep  emotion  waited.     How  it  flings 

Back  thought  on  self,  to  see  another's  grief. 

And  I — is  there  another  life  on  earth 

That  I  should  passionately  weep  like  this  ? 

Mother !     Ah  bitter  shame !     Ah  lonely  home ! 

Mine  deemed  me  but  a  rival  and  a  spy; 

She  cursed  me  for  her  waning  charms,  she  sold 

My  young  hope  to  a  master  overkind. 

Whom  could  I  weep  with  such  dear  bitterness  ? 

Sad  I  might  be,  but  nothing  desolate. — 

Yet  as  I  look  upon  that  weeping  boy, 


ri.wi 


Mn.  27] 


PASS/ON. 


229 


There  starts  and  writhes  within  my  soul  the  thought 
That  griefs  may  be,  whose  sudden  fa^al  coil 
May  murder  life  and  hope.     How  strangely  like 
That  mother  guardian  of  my  dreams  he  is. 


Richard. — Sweet  mournful  vision !  gentle  comforter ! 

Oh !  heaven  grows  dearer  now !     Keen  memory 

Has  pierced  the  mist,  and  side  by  side  they  stand, 

A  mother  in  her  hour  of  agony, 

A  maiden  here  in  dreamy  innocence, 

Forever  purely  blending  in  my  love. 

Oh  lady !  pardon  me  and  pity  me ! 

Yes,  I  am  lonely,  lonely !  but  till  now 

Pi'oudly  alone.     This  fair  pathetic  face, 

A  mother's,  makes  all  pity  sweet  to  me. 

Kind  lady !  may  I  shelter  me  in  yours  ? 


,  ',i 


Beatrice. — ^Mypity?     Sisterly  I  give  it !     More, 
If  such  a  shallow  heart  as  mme  can  bear 
The  burden  of  such  grief,  oh !  trust  in  me ! 
Are  we  not  kinsfolk  ?    Must  we  not  be  friends  ? 
It  seems  that  I  might  hold  a  brother's  love 
Nearer  my  heart  than  all  its  idle  dreams. 


Richard. — Alas !  how  many  said  they  pitied  me, 
And  turned  away  to  their  own  happiness, 
Which  smiling  bent  to  meet  them.     Mourners  gree^ 
But  mourners,  and  their  joy,  their  warmth,  their  love, 
Is  swiftly  stolen  while  the  jailer  waits, —  ' 

That  shadowy  comrade  ever  whispering 
Haste !  'tis  the  hour  for  solitude  and  self, 
A  life  like  yours  must  not  be  darkened  thus. 


230 


TIVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Beatrice. — A  life  like  mine !    'Tis  full  of  gayety, 

And  futile  laughter,  dallying  thought  away 

From  what  it  dares  not  picture.    No,  my  friend! 

No  heart  is  sadder  than  an  empty  heart. 

Not  that  my  heart  is  empty.     No,  I  have 

My  husband,  and  my  house,  a  troop  of  friends, 

The  sunniest,  dearest  cit}^  for  my  home ! 

This  be  it  mine  to  show  you.     We  have  talked 

Too  tearfully.     Not  saddening,  but  to  cheer 

Should  be  our  converse.     Come,  the  gallery ! 

This  is  our  Raphael,  our  pride. 

liichard. —  A  face 

Of  virgin  vision,  ever  worshiping 

With  thought  dilate  and  gazing  on  her  dreams, 

Till  some  wild  leaping  light  of  hfe  shot  forth, 

Her  stainless  hope  emboding  in  a  God. 

Madonna !     Canst  thou  save  the  motherless  ? 

Beatrice. — Oh  she  can  save !    In  my  deep-yearning  hours, 

I  soared  upon  the  eternal  music,  on 

And  breathless  ever  on,  seemed  close  to  God. 

But  sudden,  checked,  and  falling  like  a  star. 

Saw  God,  so  cold  and  stern  and  far  away. 

Heard  all  the  world's  old  sneer  and  jar  again. 

Then  how  her  look  seemed  listening  to  my  heart. 

Whose  prayerswere  tears!    Say  shall  we  look  once  more? 

Art  cannot  be  all  pure ;  but  Pagans  come 

And  study  on  these  Venuses  for  hours. 

IticJiard. — This  morning,  as  I  came  with  stranger  steps 
It  chanced  I  passed  a  church,  and  entered  there : 
Dim  incense  with  its  odor  clogged  the  air; 
Softly  along  the  edge  of  kneehng  throngs 


:  i 


55 


Mr.  27] 


PASSION. 


231 


I 


I  moved  toward  a  chapel,  cavern  like. 
Statues  watched  there,  and  one  pale  sentinel. 
Leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  was  still. 
As  dreaming  of  the  things  that  are  not  known 
Nor  ever  shall  be  to  the  living  known, 
Bewildered  by  some  chaos  of  despair. 
Great  dread  went  shivering  to  my  heart,  for  I 
Have  looked  into  such  voids,  and  gazing  there 
Deemed  Ufe  was  death — a  blank;  eternity. 
Oh  what  a  mind  was  his  who  knew  it  all, 
And  could  revenge  him  in  immortal  forms ! 

Beatrice. — ^Yes,  Angelo !     For  him  and  Dante,  life 
Was  bitter,  love  and  country  all  were  lost. 
They  hid  their  shame  and  sorrow  in  their  art. 
He  would  have  stony  sleep,  nor  feel  nor  see. 
Ah  what  a  tale  that  solemn  chapel  holds  ! 
That  marble  man  his  master !     Think  of  it ! 

Richard. — These  portraits!     I  may  trace  myself  in 

them; 
Perchance  the  passion  of  our  race  may  gleam 
Thro'  generations,  fr^m  the  hard  old  eyes 
Of  some  grim  grandma »  with  a  pointed  beard. 
First  of  his  name;  or  some  foul  gnawing  worm 
Of  baseness  I  am  sometimes  conscious  of 
May  lurk  behind  the  purest  seeming  smile 
Of  yon  fair  dame,  blue  eyed  and  sunny  haired, 
But  I  must  glance,  and  leave  you. 

Beatrice. —  To  return 

And  make  our  home  your  own.    We  pi'      )se  this. 
New  fi'iends  must  fain  be  despots.     You  must  dwell 
In  sunshine  with  us,  leaving  grief  behind. 


iffi 


•f 


1 


i 


232 


T^yO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Richard. — You  are  too  good  to  me.     Oh  can  it  be 
My  past  is  passing  from  me  in  this  hour, 
Nor  need  I  drain  the  last,  the  bitterest  drops  ? 
Pardon  this  selfishness.     But  at  your  voice 
Opens  my  heart  responsive,  as  one  note, 
A  bird's  first  matin  song,  breathec"  timidly 
Awakes  the  burst  that  fills  the  silent  woods. 
I  will  not  turn  again  to  what  I  was. 
But  I  should  go.     Adieu ! 


Beatrice; —  "We  meet 

So  soon,  I  will  not  say  adieu. 
[He  goes.'] 

Strange  youth  1 
What  eager  looks  and  wild  words  chasing  them, 
As  if  some  starving  tropic  wanderer 
Had  pierced  thro'  thorny  thickets,  the  dark  lairs 
Of  fierce  wild  beasts  and  reptiles,  and  beyond 
Beheld  a  glade  feathered  with  whispering  palms, 
Where  gentle  dusky  forms  gave  signs  of  peace. 
May  I  be  peace  to  him,  if  there  is  peace. 
But  I  too  must  be  calm,  'twill  be  a  task. — 
I  dare  not  be  ennobled  now,  I  live 
Perhaps  content.     I  dare  not  plunge  to  life. 
Oh  leave  me  in  the  playful  shallows  stUl. 
I  cannot  meet  the  storm.     How  sad  he  is ! 
Yes,  I  will  cheer  him.     We  will  make  him  tell 
The  wonders  of  his  savage  land,  and  we 
Will  guide  him  thro'  the  lo\  eliness  of  ours. 
The  dear  old  Marquis  loves  a  listener. 
Poor  boy  I     No  mother,  sister,  friend,  and  I 
His  senior  by  a  year  of  matronhood. 
He  said  the  world  was  cold.     Was  his  the  fault? 


855 


^T.  27] 


PASSION. 


233 


He  shall  not  find  us  so.     I  think  my  heart 
Unfolds  itself  in  sunshine  like  a  flower 
And  loves  to  blossom  all  the  summer's  day. 
Ah !  is  it  then  all  unattainable 
To  cast  self  utterly  upon  a  friend, 
Sobbing,  oh  comfort  me  for  what  I  am, 
And  what  I  cannot  be  ?  to  teel  some  heart 
Throb  tenderness  to  mine  ?    It  may  not  be. 

Know  you  how  storms  steal  on  the  helpless  world? 

Calm  waves  are  dimpled  o'er  with  agate  cells, 

Capricious  sails  flap  idly  here  and  there. 

Sleep  pilot,  by  your  vacillating  helm, 

Or  waking,  whistle  to  the  dallying  gale ! 

It  comes  across  the  tired  flowers.     It  comes 

With  distant  sparkles  kindling  as  they  near. 

It  stays,  the  sails  flap  dazzling  sunshine  out. 

Sudden  the  fierce  black  squall  screams  thro'  the  yards. 

Fond  pilot !  where  is  now  thy  sunlit  sail  ? 

I  pace  the  sullen  beach,  'twixt  foam  and  surge; 

The  sky  is  voiceless.     Ah,  remorseful  sea ! 

No  crash  can  hide  thy  pleading  undertone. 

There  helpless  in  the  valleys  of  the  waves. 

There  battered,  tossed  upon  their  leaden  green, 

There  is  a  dead  man  floating  helplessly 

Back  to  the  beaches  of  his  boyhood's  play. 

Some  have  told  strangest  tales  of  hearts  asleep 
In  innocence,  by  angel  dreams  o'erhung. 
Whereat  their  parted  rose  hps  smiled  the  more: 
Or  devils  whispered,  tiQ  in  slumber  deep 
They  muttered  strange  and  guilty  words  of  shame, 
Tossing  in  agony  that  cannot  wake. — 


<!     f 


% 


Il':i 


234 


TfVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Ab,  Beatrice,  it  is  no  fiend  that  comes, 
No  tempter  this:  his  soul  would  shrink  like  thine, 
And  folding,  quiver  back  from  touch  that  harms. 
Ye  both  are  noble  still,  unsullied  hearts — 
Your  scorn,  all  proudly  pure,  would  wither  one 
With  devil's  whisper,  hinting  of  a  sin. 

So  dwelt  they  through  a  summer  of  delight; 

Days  exquisite;  days  ripening  to  their  close; 

Noons  in  cool  lofty  galleries,  where  thought 

Was  calmed  with  beauty  and  grew  reverent. 

Art  wooed  them  to  delight,  till  wearying 

They  wandered  forth,  strewing  long  rose-leaf  trails. 

Through  the  fair  garden's  bosky  treUises, 

By  cave,  and  wilderness,  where  statues  seemed 

Listening  to  their  worn  fountain's  babbling  flow. 


'■{    9 


Such  wanderings  brought  deeper  sympathy; 
Betrayed  to  new  and  tropic  summer  life 
These  children,  guiltless  of  experience. 
Twilights  of  dreaminess  came  after  noons; — 
Green  glowed  the  west  beyond  the  olive-hills. 
Passion  unknown  flamed  through  him  suddenly. 
His  hopes  took  hers  by  hand;  we  dare  not  tell 
Save  in  such  moments  what  wild  hopes  we  have 
For  our  own  country  in  the  sun£set-west, 
"Where  thought  outmarching  sunset,  makes  high  day 
As  love  makes  all  things  new.     Oh  holiest  home  ! 
No  waymark  ruins  glimmer  down  our  past; 
Our  day  was  hardly  dawning  when  it  nooned. 
Light  came  as  in  a  forest  when  pines  fall. 
Light,  virgin  light.    Perish  the  darkness  then  1 


55 


Mt.  27] 


PASSION. 


235 


Noons  thus,  thus  twihght  dreams,  then  grew  the  moon 

From  when  it  seemed  the  circlet  to  a  star. 

Grew  like  a  wish  unspoken,  until  day 

Looked  farewell  kindly;  delicately  then 

Sweet  pallor  gently  stole  to  he  the  queen, 

And  all  the  world  was  homage.     Fairer  scene 

From  all  her  skies  she  never  saw  than  this: 

Lily  pale  Beatrice,  pure  as  herself. 

Steadily  gazing  on  the  trembling  stars. 

And  one  beside  her  finding  heaven  with  her. 

Wild  heart-beats  sent  no  roses  to  her  cheeks; 

The  breath  of  love  brings  roses,  but  not  yet 

Love  breathed,  to  bloom  the  rose  or  wither  it. 


'  <  i 


11 


p  \ 


Delicious  days !  days  calm  with  drowsiness 
Of  sunshine,  where  warm  airs  are  slumbering  too. 
Days  made  for  idleness  and  confidence, 
When  youth  may  sit  and  babble  of  itself, 
While  gentle  eyes  draw  every  secret  out. 
The  world  untried  is  but  your  plaything  then; 
Thro'  life's  illumined  shallows  you  will  wade 
Onward  to  shore,  and  bolder  as  you  stride. 
Death  you  would  leap,  as  leaps  a  mountaineer 
Green  glacier  chasms,  onward  still  to  climb, 
Forever  upward  to  eternal  hills. 


It  could  not  be  but  oft  caressingly, 

With  fondness  inexpressible,  she  laid  , 

Her  hand  on  his,  or  touched  his  cheek,  for  still 

She  kept  the  fancy  of  a  sister's  love 

Nor  knew  the  cheat.     Yet  tremors  of  delight 

Came  with  that  gentle  pressure.     Starting  thence 


11 


236 


TIVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


She  drew  away,  while  all  her  passionate  heart 
Stood  waiting  at  her  lips,  as  stays  a  cloud, 
Curbing  the  whirling  madness  of  the  storm. 

It  could  not  be  but  oftentimes  she  sang 

Music  of  Italy,  that  land's  own  voice, 

Where  life  seems  born  to  sweetly  sing  away. 

Unmindful  of  its  tragedy.     She  sang, 

And  ecstasy  chilled  through  him  like  a  bui'st 

Of  earliest  sunshine  over  opening  buds. 

He  clung  and  trembled  on  the  edge  of  bliss 

So  keen,  one  throb  had  made  it  agony. 

She  lost  all  jiresence  in  the  flow  of  song, 

Till  suddenly  she  felt  his  eager  look, 

And  blushingly  glanced  downward,  with  a  strain 

Of  half  despair,  hid  in  a  daring  song. 

Drooping  and  dying  into  quietude. 

Then  silence,  while  their  hearts  heard  echoes  fall. 

Then  burst  defiant  strains,  bold  martial  notes. 

Strains  that  might  shake  a  nation's  banner  out, 

And  call  battalions  of  brave  thoughts  to  arms. 

But  when  the  battle  music  died  away. 

Brave  thoughts,  too  loyal,  trusting,  sank  to  rest, 

And  passion,  that  from  poisoned  ambush  crept, 

Came  back  to  conquer  them  in  sleep 

I  have  been  bitter  oftener  than  is  well, 
"When  the  thorn  labyi'inth  we  wander  in 
Had  lost  its  clue  of  flimsy  spider  threads. 
Then  have  I  closed  my  eyes,  and  listening, 
Heard  the  eternal  music.     Many  times 
It  lay  all  hidden  in  its  purity 
Beneath  a  maiden's  song.    And  sterner  oft, 


^T.  27] 


PASSION. 


237 


AVhen  crowds  were  gay  and  brazen  instruments 

Crashed  welcome  to  a  gorgeous  tyranny, 

The  pauses  whispered,  God  is  vengeance  I     Oft 

Fleet  winds  have  been  my  harpers.     Rustling  grain 

I've  heard  to  whisper  thanks  for  harvest  time, 

And  I  have  heard  a  tremble  thro'  the  woods — 

Methought  bright-winged  sunbeams  fluttered  down, 

For  leaves  were  all  astir,  with  simple  joy. 

And  silvery  laughter  gay.     Then  glancing  down, 

Water,  the  best  andloveliest,like  a  girl 

Came  dancing  on  from  mossy  darkness,  'mid 

Old  autumn  leaves  and  pebbles  opaline. 

And  evermore  enchantingly  the  song, 

Delicate  music,  sweet  as  smiles  I  heard. 

And  low  deep  undertones  from  far  away. 

For  grander  now  the  stream  was  flowing  on 

At  call  of  destiny.     So  drifting  down, 

My  errant  sylvan  river  guiding  me,  \ 

And  master  now,  at  last  there  sei     ed  to  be 

A  noontide  sunrise  all  along  the  so  th; 

Two  heavens  met  cinctured  with  a  belt  of  gold; 

Thence  came  the  eternal  music,  and  the  blue, 

The  hither  blue  was  counting  on  its  shore 

Beats  of  wild  melody.     Die  nobly  here, 

Beautiful  river,  in  eternity. 

Be  lost  in  broader  music  evermore. — 


Like  swallows  bounding,  bounding  over  light, 
Skimming  the  white  and  billowy  ail*  along, 
Eagerly  full  of  bursting  darting  song. 
Soared  Beatrice  and  her  wild  lover;  nay, 
Not  lover.     Lifted  over  floods  of  song, 
And  borne  away  by  melody,  to  coasts 


238 


TPVO    IVORLDS, 


[1855 


Unknown  of  earthly  unillumined  rouIs, 
They  dwelt  where  symphonies  eternally 


Eternal  seas  are  sounding. 


Oh  innocently,  innocently,  love 

Stole  to  their  hearts,  of  pity  born  and  thanks; 

For  pity  grew,  like  some  transcendent  flower, 

Blameless  for  poison  till  one  plucked  and  died. 

Easy  is  erring  over  plains  of  flowers, 

Slowly  the  lost  are  lost,  and  sadly  trace 

Their  backward  path  by  blossoms  plucked,  now  dead. 

Slowly  it  clouded  over  Beatrice, 

The  love  that  was  not  sunshine:  prisoner 

In  fine  and  golden  web  herself  had  wove; 

It  seemed  to  deck  her  like  sweet  tracery 

Of  bridal  lace.     She  dreamed  all  carelessly 

Those  filmy  bonds  to  breathe  away.     Alas, 

Her  pure  pride  lied  to  her  that  she  might  check, 

Still  cherishing  her  honest  tenderness. 

She  stood  beside  the  hearth  where  smouldering  fire. 

Ashes  and  embers  lay  which  should  have  warmed 

Her  home  of  marriage,  over  these  she  bent. 

Too  heart-chilled  even  to  have  one  fluttering  breath 

To  strive  and  pant  to  kindle  them  again. 

It  was  a  noble  palace,  and  its  lord 

A  kind  old  man.     And  when  she  came  at  first 

He  led  her  over  tessellated  halls. 

She  turning  childlike  here  and  there,  and  gay 

She  flew  along  her  new  and  wider  cage. 

Singing  to  prove  how  bird-like  free  she  was. 

In  pauses  of  her  song  she  asked  for  love; 

Alas !  it  came  not.     Kindness,  fondness,  these 


Were  grateful. 


Tokens  sweet,  betokening 


15 


Mt.  27] 


PASS /ON. 


239 


Little  from  his  slow  heart,  all  mossed  with  age. 
Oh  mystery !  and  she  was  all  alone. 
The  priest  appears,  the  magic  words  are  said — 
Open  the  ivory  gates,  all  void  within. 

Could  it  be  wrong  to  give  the  heart  away, 

So  it  was  but  a  heart  ?    That  kind  old  man 

Was  harmless  of  heart  craving;  so  it  seemed 

She  was  what  he  would  have,  a  brilliant  thing 

For  throngs  to  envy,  nor  the  less  to  him 

A  prattling  comrade.     With  an  unconfessed 

Remorse,  to  reparation  urging  her, 

Hardly  self  convict  of  a  traitor  thought. 

More  gently  than  in  friendliest  moments  past 

She  laid  her  hand  in  his,  and  cheered  and  soothed 

His  trifle  flurried  panics,  sang  him  songs, 

Listened  indulgently  to  critic  doubts, 

And  talk  of  ladies  who  when  he  was  young  , 

Had  higher  notes,  trills  more  articulate 

Than  hers,  all  dimmed  for  his  old  ears.     At  times 

She  wept  for  him,  for  pity.     Wasted  pearls ! 

Waste  as  the  unprized  priceless  love  he  lost. 

Serene,  contented  in  his  littleness. 


But  when  with  night  came  dreams,  wild  stormy  dreams, 

Ever  one  haunting  form  before  her  eyes 

Came  in  her  troubled  sleep.     She  dreamed  of  flight 

Over  red  deserts,  over  wastes  of  blood; 

A  steady  tramp  came  closing  after  her,  \ 

And  a  fiend's  face  more  terrible  than  death 

Looked  o'er  her  shoulder,  or  she  fell  down,  down. 

Through  horrible  abysses,  clasped  with  him 

Who  was  her  own,  yet  changed  to  pallid  death. 


240 


TPVO    WORLDS. 


[1865 


Dreams  such  as  these  the  master- thought  betrayed; 
For  dreams  are  never  wholly  dreams,  but  shapes 
Mystic,  distorted  from  our  daylight  hopes. 

But  what  of  Richard  ?    Oh !  forgive  the  boy, 
If  when  a  winning  syren  sang  delight. 
Along  his  heart,  shrine  after  holy  shrine 
Opening  received  and  echoed  ecstasy. 
He  thought  not  of  an  angel  viFitant— 
One  purely  came.     Could  augh  ^  but  worship  be  ? 
She  was  so  heavenly  stainless !     Not  misled 
Was  that  young  heart  of  his  by  elder  sneers 
That  beauty  was  but  veiled  impurity. 

Merciful  beauty !    Angel  of  mean  earth, 
Divine,  divinest !     On  his  loneliness, 
Exhaustless  bounty  she  had  kindly  showered; 
His  bliss  seemed  questionless,  his  right,  his  own. 
Terrible  beauty!     Fiend  all  serpent-like; 
No  evil  hiss  is  in  thy  delicate  voice, 
Glorious  maddening  tempter.     Calm  as  fate 
Thou  strikest  thy  deep  fangs  when  strikes  the  hour, 
Changing  from  woman  to  a  monster  vile. 

He  could  not  choose  but  love,  love,  love;  red  fate; 
A  tyrant,  treads  on  choice.     His  spirit  prayed 
Peace !  peace !     I  bore  my  other  misery. 
But  this  I  cannot  bear,  this  torture  Love. 
No  choice  but  love !     Ah  1  warm  and  friendly  foe. 
That  smiles  so  on  us  with  unconscious  eyes  I 
To  check  such  instinct  passion  ere  it  grew 
For  this  were  need  of  man's  firm  wisdom.     He 
Took  but  his  heart  for  leader.     Were  life  true  ? — 
Beautiful,  white-plumed  chieftain,  we  would  march 


11 


Mt.  27] 


PASS/OAT 


241 


AVitli  thee,  through  fight,  to  safety !     But  'tis  fivlse 
There  is  no  guide,  not  any,  save  to  err. 

It  pleased  the  Marquis  that  his  wife  could  find 
A  comrade  in  his  kinsman  whom  he  loved, 
And  Richard,  full  of  kindly  gratefulness, 
Held  out  hi'o  sturdy  arm  and  sturdier  mind, 
Sonlike  for  him  to  cling.     Not  yet  was  wrong. 

There  had  been  loud  wild  gales  till  noon,  and  leaves, 

Autumnal  leaves,  were  whirhng  on  the  air; 

But  after  noon  the  winds  were  still,  and  mist, 

The  slumbrous  haze  of  autumn  slow  enwraj^ped. 

Enshrouded  earth.     So  calm  the  dav  became. 

So  lulled  into  such  indolent  repose. 

Such  dull  luxurious  entrancement,  such 

Hot  breathlessness,  such  pause  of  time  and  life, 

As  level  rivers  know  when  near  the  sea. 

Slow  lagged  the  sluggish  blood  thro'  half-closed  veins. 

Keen  blasts  that  stir  the  ardent  spirits  up 

Had  fallen  blunted,  and  each  drowsy  flower 

Had  folded  eyelid  over  eye,  in  sleep. 

It  was  such  eve  as  this.     Irresolute 

The  oval  sun  had  vainly  sunk  away; 

A  pall  closed  in  his  parting.     Lowering 

Dull  skies  athwart  their  lurid  reaches  watched; 

No  dewy  freshness  came  from  twiUght  dells. 

Alone  they  sat.     Oh,  lovers  surely  now. 

And  fearfully  alone.     The  walls  they  built 

Crushed  them  like  chaos.     None,  it  seemed,  could  pass 

Forever.    But  without  a  magic  word, 

Two  souls  are  prisoned  there,  forever  damned — 

Never  shall  Heaven  visit  them,  nor  hope. 


i! 


ir 


:■ 


I 


' 


II 


242 


TWO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


They  sat  in  terrible  twilight.     Nevermore 
Can  any  steady  look  between  them  pass — 
Forever  tremors  bring  betrayal  near. — 
They  heard  an  old  man's  step  along  the  walk. 
He  came  to  warn  them  kindly  of  the  mists 
Of  autumn,  fevered  dews,  pestiferous  moons. 
His  tref  d  came  somewhat  slowly  on,  a  door^ 
That  tramped  along  the  chamber  of  their  souls, 
To  bar  back  life.     They  heard  his  rustling  feet 
Among  tlie  dead  leaves  coming,  and  he  seemed 
To  count  the  pebbles  as  he  dragged  along. 
He  came,  and  looking  westward  as  he  sj^oke, 
Said  simply,  "  This  may  be  our  las.  nne  night; 
The  lurid  west  foretells  great  storms  to  come ; 
Winter  must  soon  be  with  us.     Richard,  we 
Like  not  your  talk  of  parting.     You  will  find 
No  city  fair  as  this.     Not  ruined  Rome, 
Not  Naples  with  its  fevers  and  its  fires, 
Not  stagnant  Venice,  nor  Milan,  whose  dome 
Has  gone  to  seed  with  pinnacles.     No,  stay 
With  us,  your  kinsfolk.     Beatrice  and  I 
Both  love  you  as  a  son.     Yes,  be  our  son ! 
Forget  your  savage  land.     Your  home  is  here. 
Among  the  civilized.     She  prays  it  too; 
Yes,  cheer  my  age,  my  heart,  and  be  our  son." 

"  His  son !    0  God !    My  son  I  oh  God  1 " 

She  turned; 
There  was  a  ghastly  moon  low  in  the  sky, 
Just  risen,  not  so  ghastly  as  her  face. 
Grasp  not  so  chilly  at  her  tender  heart  1 
Back !  grim  Remorse !     Back !  seize  that  cowering  one ! 
In  mercy  hide  him  from  the  self  he  hates ! 


$55 


^T.  27] 


PENANCE. 


243 


The  living  silence  was  as  still  as  death; 

Paleness  drooped  over  her  as  falls  a  shroud; 

A  mask  it  seemed;  despair  quenched  agony. 

Parting  without  forgiveness  ?  not  a  look  ? 

Her  life  was  feebly  fluttering  at  her  heart, — 

She  fell  and  she  was  dead.     Not  yet.     They  stooped; 

Lifting  her  tenderly.     Her  eyes  unclosed, 

Life  had  one  message  more.     It  was  for  him. 

With  one  last  throb  heart  said  farewell  to  heart, 

Death  waited  carelessly.     Kind  Heaven  had  mc!, 

Her  pardoned  spirit,  pardoned  ere  she  erred. 

Mercy  unmasked  the  sternness  from  her  lips, 

One  last  flush  tinged  her  pallor,  and  she  smiled. 

There  came  a  smile — yes,  even  for  him  a  smile 

He  will  remember  always.     But  her  hand 

Was  clasped  within  her  husband's. 

So  she  died. 


I? 


IV. 


PENANOE. 

Penance  for  sins  not  ours  I     Sorrow  for  crimes 
We  hated  when  we  did !     Kegret  for  bliss 
Our  ruthless  ignorance  has  cast  away. 
Remorse  for  harmful  deeds  that  guiltlessly 
Murdered  pure  joy  in  others'  hearts  and  ours. 
Despair  alone  'mid  corpses  of  its  hopes, 
As  in  a  plague-struck  city's  lonely  square, 
A  mother  sits,  her  children  round  her,  dead. 

Why  was  I  born  to  be  the  butt  of  fate  ? 
Make  answer,  life!     Art  thou  one  giant  lie  ? 
Thou  hast  been  villain  false  to  me !    Alas 


ii 


I 


244 


TIVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


:     I 


I  see  no  truth,  not  any.     Everywhere 
Is  bubbling  laughter  of  the  idiot  soul. 
Yet  merry,  merry  is  youth,  and  lovelier 
Than  any  bii'ds  are  childish  melodies. 
How  lightsome  were  my  days.     Visions  too  soon 
In  childhood  gave  me  longing  to  be  cursed 
With  knowledge,  but  my  mother's  sunny  smile 
Shone  then  and  I  was  happy. 

Ne'er  again, 
Gallops  of  glory,  shall  ye  lead  me  on, 
Thoughtless  of  sunset,  over  prairie  crests. 
Right  through  the  stirring  foeman  wind  I  rode, 
Till  my  horse  stopped  at  once  with  eyes  of  flame, 
Instantly  still  was  I,  for  fronting  me 
Sunset  was  sadly  grand,  like  heaven  we  lose. 
Too  far,  too  far.     But  brief  was  sadness  then, 
As  home  I  flew  beneath  the  comrade  stars. 


How  dear  to  live  again  the  old  delight  s ! 

Ah  that  this  trembling  peace  across  my  brow 

Were  more  than  memory  of  a  mother's  kiss ! 

Oh  mother  of  my  early  dawning  love ! 

Oh  mother  of  my  questioning  young  heart ! 

Oh  mother  of  my  lofty  eager  hopes ! 

Oh  angel  guide !     When  stars  grew  large  and  deep, 

Longing  to  speak  their  mystery,  thy  soft 

Dark  eyes  how  tender  true,  how  faithful  calm. 

How  tortureless  beside  their  restless  glow. 

Never  again  my  youth  shall  meet  its  mate  ! 

My  brother-father,  ardent,  manly,  wise, 

Sincere  in  all  emotions,  chivalrous. 

Not  curdled  o'er  with  trifling  maxims,  such 

As  moulder  down  broad  natures  into  mean. 


^T.  27] 


PENANCE. 


245 


Not  with  weak  warnings  did  he  fright  my  Hfe. 
He  said,  be  true,  be  bold !     For  he  who  trusts 
His  truth  of  heart,  himself  to  self  a  friend, 
Gleans  through  the  treacherous  melee  of  the  world 
A  chief,  of  argent  shield  and  stainless  plume. 


Ah !  near  was  heaven  to  our  far  bivouacs  I 
Stars  overhung  us  graciously,  and  fleet 
Came  answer  by  them  to  the  hope  of  light, 
Inner,  eternal.     Boundless  hours  we  passed; 
All  my  impassioned  boyhood  silently 
Followed  his  earnest  manhood,  as  ho  told 
How  the  world-wise  and  dwarfish  creature  man 
Starts  up  to  gianthood  antean,  when 
Bare  nature  wrestles  with  the  recreant. 


] 


We  face  to  face  with  vu'gin  nature  stand. 

Wooing  the  unwooed  beauty,  we  would  tame. 

Ourselves  the  while  must  simpler  be,  as  those 

Bold  knights,  companions  to  the  nymphs  and  fauns. 

Be  nature  now  thy  boyhood's  love,  my  son; 

Go  with  her,  hand  in  hand,  and  heart  to  heart; 

Follow,  where  lapt  in  ferny  nooks  she  hides — 

A  maiden  fragile  as  anemones. 

Follow,  where  underneath  the  fragrant  pines 

She  sings  a  sighing  lay  as  soft  as  theii's. 

Within  the  holies  of  those  vista'd  aisles. 

And  follow  her  where  over  prairie  land, 

Her  feet  with  dawn-lit  dews  impearled,  she  flies, 

And  ever  flings  behind  a  lure  of  flowers. 

Follow  with  love  relentless.     When  at  last 

You  win  the  dear  delight  of  heart  to  heart, 


i 


!'! 


:|      .' 


246 


TIVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Oh !  in  her  wondrous  eyes,  all  mysteries 

Of  beauty  deeper  than  your  dreams,  will  look 

Intensest  answer  to  your  earnest  quest, 

All  life  immortalized  with  ecstasy. — 

In  this  wild  world  of  ours  are  stirring  scenes 

Where  manly  souls  meet  nature.     Bivouacs, 

The  march,  the  night  watch,  soldier's  fare,  the  tale 

Round  gleaming  camp  fires.     Up !  away  at  dawn ! 

Westward  from  orient,  onward  with  the  sun ! 

Noon  gallops.     Thirst  and  weariness;  the  flood; 

The  plunge  to  save  a  maddened  drowning  horse. 

The  mountain  pass.     Snow  perils,  starving  days. 

The  hearty  savagery  of  appetite; 

Exalting  glimpses  over  lands  unknown; 

Long  vales  that  slope  in  green  to  inland  seas; 

Sweet  prairie  shrines,  watched  round  by  evergreens, 

One  noblest  pine  standing  a  sentinel. 

Where  as  you  ride  a  doe  bounds  up  and  flies. 

Pauses  with  pleading  look,  then  flies  again. — 

And  know,  my  son,  if  ere  it  be  thy  heart 

Is  echoless  when  pine  trees  sigh  to  thee, 

Is  echoless  to  voices  of  the  groves, 

And  in  God's  silences  jars,  worldly-false, 

Remember  penitence  may  grow  remorse. 

Remorse,  despair.     Go  then,  and  seek  thy  love, 

Kneeling  in  forest  shrine,  or  where  the  grand 

Uplifting  of  her  snow  peak  queens  afar. — 

There  came  a  day  in  autumn,  dashed  with  spring, 
Sunny  with  sparkles  through  its  living  air. 
My  father !  oh  my  father !     Hopefully 
Forth  on  the  gallop  to  the  hunt  we  rode. 
All  wild  with  vigor  as  we  faced  the  hills. 


55 


I 

' 


Mt.  27] 


PENANCE. 


247 


Back  rolled  the  black  and  roaring  multitude ! 
Trampled  to  death !  O  God !  I  see  him  yet  I 
My  hero !  crushed  and  utterly  defaced, 
And  struggling  thro'  his  agony  to  smile, 
To  speak  to  me,  and  moan  one  parting  word. 
Oh,  dare  I  trace  again  that  dizzy  hour 
That  brings  again  my  terror  worse  than  death, 
When  she  we  loved  came  flying  like  a  wind 
Glancing  on  me  as  if  from  far  away, 

Then  died  there  ? 

Was  not  this  enough,  oh  God  ? 

Must  I  step  blindly  down  to  darker  fate. 

Groping  to  my  own  dungeon  ?    With  a  clang 

The  heavy  doors  closed,  leaving  hope  behind, 

Tomb  like.     My  love  lies  buried  in  that  grave. 

Another  grave  I  see,  an  old  man's  grave, 

One  that  I  wronged.     He  seemed  to  know  it  not, 

And  ever  grasped  my  hand  and  called  me,  son. 

Most  feebly  smiling,  said,  "  She  loved  me  much. 

That  he  would  die,  and  say  how  kind  I  was. 

He  feared  his  love  had  blighted  all  her  youth — 

Will  she  not  come  from  heaven  with  pardoning  words  ? 

Pardon  for  me !  oh  pardon !  "    Words  of  peace 

I  spoke  to  him,  that  were  my  agony, 

So  sorrowed  briefly  all  his  life  away. 


And  this  was  love?    An  agony !     At  first 

How  sweet  and  pure  that  tempting  current  flowed, 

.We  floating  innocent  through  hanging  boughs, 

The  river  of  our  love  a  sunlit  way. 

All  fringed  with  water-lilies.     Down  we  passed 

To  other  zones  all  rich  with  tropic  flowers; 

About  us  closed  a  murmuring  melody 


248 


TPVO    lyOKLDS. 


[1855 


I 


;!  1 


Lulling,  prophetic,  warning;  over  us 

Winds  tossed  us  rose  leaves,  bridal  orange  blooms; 

Ever  our  boat  on  its  own  ripples  pressed; 

Its  ripples  made  a  singing  as  it  went. 

We  saw  the  beautiful  world.     Her  magic  charm 

Wooed  sunshine  thro'  each  shade,  if  shade  there  were. 

I  listened  to  my  voice  that  spoke  to  her 

From  its  delicious  deeps  of  passion  calm, 

Then  silent  with  heart  trembles,  till  her  voice 

Thrilled  thro'  my  being  like  a  silver  flood 

Of  moonlit  waters  in  a  shadowy  dell. 

Then  we  grew  conscious  suddenly  of  stern 

And  master  currents,  and  a  steely  cliff 

Drew  to  inevitable  plunge  beyond. 

On !  all  forgot  save  love !     Electric  airs 

Became  a  tempest.     Cruel,  strong  as  Death, 

The  dash,  the  struggle  wild  and  desperate  I 

I  saw  her  drowning  look  grow  horrible, 

Her  smile  but  softly  veiled  it,  but  she  gave 

One  death  gift.     On  her  cheek  tliat  paled  by  mine 

One  pearl-white  rose  just  blushing  at  the  heart. 

She  paid  the  vengeance !     Did  I  murder  her  ? 

My  love !     My  passion !     Better  both  had  died 

Than  met  for  ruin,  bitterness,  remorse. — 

Pale  loveliness,  more  pale  for  long  black  hair. 

Night  shrouded  with  her  hair  we  buried  her. 

One  tearless,  one  so  crushed  and  old  and  sad; 

The  world  became  to  me  one  wide  unrest. 

I  saw  my  future  waste  and  trackless  grow. 

More  desert  than  the  desert  there  before. 

Methought,  could  I  save  one,  my  penance  might 
Be  angel-lifted  briefly;  so  I  plead 


JEt.  27] 


PENANCE. 


249 


e. 


With  brother  or  with  sister,  pointing  them 

To  nobler  selves  and  lives;  but  each  had  chosen; 

One  called  choice,  Fate;  one,  careless,  turned  aside 

Forgetting;  till  in  sorrowful  contempt 

I  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  world. 

I  stood  by  hearths  called  happy,  but  beheld 

Shy  discord  lurking  in  indifference, 

Endurance,  merged  in  hate,  or  in  despair. 

Holding  the  tarnished  mirror  of  my  heart 

To  others'  hearts,  still  more  they  clouded  it; 

I  saw  the  very  soul  of.  souls  to  cringe 

In  holy  hypocrites,  who  dare  not  say 

In  large  outspoken  truth  that  Faith  was  dead. 

Sneers  made  truth  lies,  and  every  earnestness 

Was  met  with  bitter  laughter.     Paltry  life ! 

How  would  I  shrink  from  thee  and  know  myself 

Had  I  one  hour  of  peace,  one  blessed  hour. 

Ere  I  drink  Lethe  in  the  vale  of  death.  \ 

Not  this  for  me !  I  would  not  heal  one  scar, 

Where  searching  flames  have  nerved  me  resolute, 

Were  I  but  brave  to  all  endurance.     No ! 

I  dare  not  curse  e'en  memory,  or  the  sting 

When  coiled  remorse  lifts  up  a  pale  dead  face 

And  hisses,  Darest  thou  hope  for  peace  ?    Despair ! 

For  I  am  near  thee  always ! 

I  have  sought, 
Striding  o'er  science  like  a  field,  to  know. 
I  fought  against  the  infinite  of  heaven 
With  miserable  measurements,  and  tried  '• 

To  comprehend  celestial  symmetry 
In  vain — mysterious,  crowded,  tremulous  voids, 
Ye  harshly  watch  me  with  unblenching  eyes, 
Keen,  cruel,  unresponsive,  omenless. 


iH 


!       I 
J       1 


250 


TPVO    IVOKLDS. 


[1855 


Poor  lagging  science  following  in  the  steps 

Of  all  this  terrible  and  hostile  life, 

Canst  thou  defend  us  with  thy  half-drawn  sword, 

Thou  hast  not  strength  to  lift,  and  darest  not  strike  ? 

It  is  an  utter  dreary  thing  to  read 

Those  sad  apologies  called  histories. 

Nations  have  failed,  the  wise  men  say,  and  thus 

'Twill  ever  be.     Yet  on  a  battle-field 

Clear  bugle  notes  amid  the  tumult  sound 

CaUing  a  charge,  and  thus,  amid  the  crash  ' 

Of  cycles,  has  been  heard  the  thrilling  voice 

Of  some  great  prophet,  shouting  to  his  age 

To  march  to  what  it  might,  but  will  not  be. 

He  fails !     How  sad  for  a  great  heart  to  fail  I 

He  fails !  and  drinks  his  poisoned  cup  and  dies. 

He  fails !  his  nation  perishes  unknown 

For  what  they  might  have  been,  had  they  been  men. 

The  past  is  wholly  comfortless.    There  has 
Been  labor.     Centuries  are  filled  with  days 
And  nights  of  toilsome  toil;  but  every  day 
And  night  some  laborer  lay  down  and  cried 
To  what  he  called  his  God,  Give  rest !  give  rest ! 
All  this  is  fruitless.     I  am  weary.    Death — 
This  gave  the  gods.     Who  knows  if  it  be  rest? 
Who  knows  ?  we  question  vainly,  bitterly; 
Our  answers  are  Fate,  Mystery  and  Death, 
Our  guide  is  Fate,  our  world  is  Mystery, 
And  only  Death  can  tell  what  Death  may  be. 
One  joy  is  here,  that  neither  Fate  nor  Death 
Can  conquer  any  soul  forever,  if  he  dares 
To  stand  and  not  to  yield.     Thus  Richard  stood. 


.Ex.  27] 


i.OVE. 


251 


First  love  has  burned  to  ashes,  and  then  Faith, 
That  would  relight  Love's  dead  and  trampled  torch, 
Fell  and  was  lost  amid  the  deepening  gloom. 
Then,  in  the  blackness,  with  one  flickering  hojie 
The  wanderer  passed  along. 


V. 


LOVK 

She  wandered  by  the  sea-shore  all  alone, 

And  murmured  thoughtful  songs  to  her  true  heart. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  full  of  pensiveness. 

And  soft  as  if  some  fairy  sprite  within, 

A  dewdrop  exiled  from  the  skies,  had  breathed 

A  sigh  in  falling.     Margaret.     Not  such, — 

Not  such  a  Margaret  as  one  I  know, 

With  tendril  curls  like  her  exquisite  thoughts,       \  • 

With  opalescent  eyes,  not  ignorant 

Of  flashes,  when  the  torrent  words,  too  slow. 

Dart  leaping  glances  into  caves  of  Truth, 

And  startle  unimagined  beauty  forth. 

As  darkly-fair,  as  delicately-bright. 

As  the  keen  edge  of  a  Damascus  blade 

Engraved  with  tracery  of  flowers,  and  sharp 

To  cut  the  Alms  of  doubt  and  fear,  and  show 

All  nobleness.     The  Margaret  of  my  tale 

Was  lovely,  not  the  same;  the  world  is  full 

Of  lovely  women  as  the  air  with  dew. 

She  wandered  by  the  sea-shore  happily — 
She  knew  the  ocean  infinite.     It  smiled 
Brighter  than  her  young  gayety  could  smile. 


I 


252 


nro    WOKLDS. 


[1855 


All  moods  her  noble  comrade  shared  with  her, 

But  most  his  calmness  and  bis  majesty 

She  loved  as  Godlike.     When  the  waking  breeze 

Shook  down  a  golden  veil  before  her  eyes, 

Her  eyes  as  blue  as  shadows  on  the  snow, 

And  white  sails  ever  came  and  went,  her  thoughts 

Swept  grandly  seaward  with  the  tall  swift  ships; 

But  swifter  darting,  voyaged  round  the  world, 

And  ere  the  ships  had  vanished,  had  embarked 

On  richly  freighted  vessels  homeward  bound. 

And  passed  the  outward  sailor  in  the  bay. 

Sometimes  she  dreamed  herself  a  tropic  bird, 

Heralding  sunrise  with  a  sun-flushed  wing. 

Happy  the  soul  that  welcomes  the  divine, 

And  such  was  Margaret's;  but  most  of  all 

The  voiceful  spu'its  of  the  sea  became 

Her  teachers.     They  brought  wealth  as   seas  have 

poured 
Gifts  on  the  verdant  island  wh*  re  our  race 
Was  cradled.     God  save  that  fair  isle !     But  still, 
Accepting  joyfully  all  outward  forms. 
She  longed  for  the  unseen,  unspoken.     Love 
Must  have  its  meeting  with  another  heart, 
Ere  life  is  circled  to  the  perfect  orb. 
No  magic  words  perhaps  are  uttered  then, 
But  thoughts  leap  into  being.     Margaret 
Looked  on  the  sea  as  on  a  nobler  life. 
Beyond  the  gayety  of  girlhood's  dream. 
Each  lifting  sail  bore  her  a  hope  that  came. 
Or  bore  a  hope  away,  and  still,  adrift 
Upon  a  life  yet  heaving  after  storms,  • 

She  wandered  by  the  sea-shore,  dreamily. 
Lulled  by  the  whisperings  of  her  comrade,  sea. 


)55 


^T.  27] 


LOVE. 


253 


kve 


Along  the  sunlit  edges  of  liis  waves, 

Dipping  its  canvas  as  it  went,  there  sliot 

A  cutter,  lightly  playing  near  the  beach. 

Richard  was  there  alone  upon  the  sea, 

And  eagle-eyed  he  gazed  upon  her  face, 

As  she  stood  there  alone  upon  the  sand. 

Her  sleep  that  night  was  full  of  hoverings 

Of  snow-winged  boats  that  bore  lier  gifts  of  flowers. 

She  wandered  by  the  soa-side,  hopefully, — 

Again,  as  birds  fly  back  to  summer,  came 

The  eager  boat.     Steady,  for  it  had  found 

Its  star,  hung  in  a  sky  of  hope ;  again, 

No  longer  \yandering  carelessly,  no  more 

Roving  adrift,  each  came,  only  a  glance, 

No  word,  but  when  apart,  at  night,  they  watched 

The  slow,  sad  parting  of  the  sea  and  moon, 

He  knew  his  soul  had  found  its  mistress;  she 

Confessed  the  sov'reign  of  her  soul  had  come.  \  i 

Heedless  we  step  into  our  shallow  joys, 

But  tarry  ere  we  plunge  into  the  depths. 

Hearts  that  when  joined  are  vxve  eternally, 

Shrink  from  the  fateful  instant  that  unites: 

So  Richard  hastened  not  to  further  bliss. 

Content  with  fullness  of  the  present  hour. 


A  chance  brought  them  together  then.     He  went 
To  a  friend's  mansion  on  a  beacon  hill 
O'erlooking  the  broad  bay  all  thick  with  sails 
Innumerable,  come  fi'om  many  lands; 
A  worthy  mansion  for  a  merchant  prince. 
And  queened  by  a  fair  woman,  full  of  grace. 
They  sat  within  the  porch.     Dim  evening  came, 
The  moon  sailed  upward  like  a  noble  thought — 


i  i 


11 


254 


TfVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Tliey  listened  to  the  waves  upon  the  beach 

Booming  the  warning  of  the  coming  storm. 

A  pensive  silence  hung  upon  the  group, 

And  Richard  came.     The  talk  was  grave  and  sad; 

Of  past  and  future  life,  and  death,  and  hope; 

And  he  had  spoken  somewhat  desperately. 

Spurning  beliefs  to  him  all  utter  void; 

13ut  from  the  darkness  came  a  firm,  sweet  voice, 

That  chided  him  all  innocently  bold. 

Speaking  the  intuitions  of  a  fresh, 

Pure  maidenhood,  wise  in  simplicity. 

And  all  his  shaq^  array  of  argument 

Did  maiiial  homage  to  her  victory. 

"  What  if  your  lamps  of  life  are  dim  ?  "  she  said, 

"  We  know  that  God  made  light,  and  light  is  still 

The  victor.     Darkness  is  but  vanished  light, 

And  doubtless  it  will  shine  again  for  you." 

She  paused;  her  low  and  richly  gentle  voice 

Drew  harmony  over  their  troubled  minds. 

The  surf  burst  with  an  echo  grand  afar 

Of  her  sweet  voice;  a  voice  like  that,  he  thought, 

Might  come  from  that  fair  lady  of  the  shore. 

— ^Men  have  made  many  instruments,  and  joined 

Strange  elements  of  sound  in  harmony, 

But  over  all  in  fuller  majesty, 

Arousing  and  subduing,  breathes  the  voice. 

When  God  has  gifted  one  with  melody. — 

It  seemed  to  them  as  if  an  angel  came 

Swiftly  by  moonlight  over  ruined  shrines. 

To  build  them  new,  of  marble.     Then  glad  hearts 

Leaped  quick  to  gayety,  and  asked  for  song. 

He  stood  without  and  listened  as  she  sang 


iEx.  27] 


LOVE. 


255 


r 


Birdlike.     Then  he  must  sing.     He  chose  a  chant 
Sung  by  the  tropic  Indians,  when  they  dip 
Their  lazy  paddles  in  a  lingering  stream; 
Monotonous,  and  wild  with  passion  hid. 
So  pleasant  converse  wore  away  the  eve, 
In  which  she  sparkled  brightest,  fluttering 
Like  an  excited  bird  that  fears  the  cage. 
But  he  was  silent,  wondering  at  his  bliss; 
And  paradise  was  there,  as  it  must  be 
When  love  creates  a  soul  anew.     She  went. 
She  wandered  by  the  sea-shore  once  again, 
An  orphan,  like  her  lover.     There  are  times 
In  men's  and  nation's  lives,  when  anarchy 
Reigns  tyrant,  but  some  still,  heroic  thought 
Rises,  and  there  is  quiet;  as  when  waves 
Raging  more  madly  for  the  darkness,  see 
A  stranger  orb,  dim  and  majestical, — 
As  if  some  spirit  from  a  calmer  sphere, — 
Look  wonder  on  the  uproar,  and  they  cease. 
So  rose  her  silent  beauty  on  his  soul. 
And  he  went  steering  shoreward,  seeking  her. 


Was  it  not  then  enough  that  aU  his  youth 
Was  blasted,  and  enough  his  long  despair? 
Was  it  not  that  his  torture  of  remorse 
Had  conquered  fate  ?     She  welcomed  him 
With  a  firm  gracefulness,  like  thinnest  veil 
Before  the  sunshine  warmth  of  her  full  smile. 
They  met,  and  lingering  paced  along  the  sand, 
Slow  as  two  lovers  ere  they  say  adieu. 
He  rather  chose  to  listen  than  to  speak, 
And  hear  the  breezy  gladness  of  her  voice 
Soothe  every  tremor  of  his  life  to  peace. 


(      i 


'!  il 


i     '. 


ii 


256 


rfVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Her  deep  joy  made  her  gay,  as  rippling  waves 

Sparkling  with  inward  light  of  sunbeams  play. 

They  talked  of  ocean  by  its  mystic  marge; 

The  sea,  her  comrade,  with  its  voice  of  waves 

Wooed  her  to  speak  of  him,  and  Richard  knew 

The  secrets  of  the  sea  in  calm  and  storm; 

And  many  a  lovely  palm-clad  island  stood 

^Vithin  his  memory.     And  well  he  knew 

The  secrets  of  the  desert  wastes,  and  all 

The  strange  wild  knowledge  of  the  traveler. 

She  listened  eagerly,  but  as  he  talked 

She  saw  that  all  his  voyages  were  naught 

But  aimless  floatings  on  a  sea  of  grief, 

Wild  chasings  of  an  ever-flying  hope, 

Long,  reckless,  lonely  flights  from  haunting  thoughts. — 

A  woman's  heaven-taught  wisdom  is  not  bought 

By  bitter  trials  of  experience ; 

Its  flower  it  opens  to  the  sun  of  Love 

Unconsciously;  and  Margaret  divined 

Some  hidden  sorrow  which  her  hand  could  cure, 

Touching  with  sympathy,  not  probing  harsh. 

She  swept  the  discords  of  his  heart,  they  rang 

With  a  grand  harshness,  like  the  broken  sounds 

Before  the  sweetness  of  a  symphony, 

Until  he  threw  all  hesitance  awav, 

And  leaped  into  the  flood  of  his  life's  tale ; 

Telling  the  whole  sad  story  to  her  heart. 

Then,  "  Let  me  know  you  pardon  I    I  can  wait 

Till  God  and  angels  do."    In  her  blue  eyes 

The  quick  tears  dashed  a  shower.     Grave  womanhood, 

Tenderly  true  and  firm  stood  trial  now. 

She  said,  "  God  pardons,  I  can  pity  3'ou  I 


}U 


^T.  27] 


LOVE. 


257 


And  oh,  if  any  wish  of  mine,  if  hope, 

Faith  in  your  Snal  conquest  can  arouse 

A  better-oinened  struggle,  take  all  these." 

And  she  stretched  out  her  hand  in  pledge  of  troth. 

Faith  for  another  till  he  perishes, 

Is  better  than  a  cold  abandonment; 

But  when  a  man  has  proved  the  world,  and  self. 

And  found  both  wanting,  and  has  hated  both, 

Then  there  is  but  one  savior  for  despair.  — 

Love,  only  love,  a  breathless  messenger 

Can  come  aiii]  wave  its  snow-white  flag  between 

The  bristling  ranks  of  war.     His  heart  stood  still. 

His  soul  was  lifted  on  a  wave  of  hope — 

He  could  not  bear  its  sinking,  and  he  sprang 

Before  it,  venturing.     "  Ah  lady,  were  I  strong 

With  untried  manhood,  did  I  march  all  bold 

In  my  young  knighthood,  it  were  victory !  , 

But  I  have  fought  already,  and  have  lost. 

Alone  I  dare  not  yet  renew  the  fight — 

No  arms,  no  standard,  it  were  hopeless  strife — 

Oh  save  me !     Dare  I  ask  you  for  your  love  ?  " 

He  ceased.     As  eager  trembling  light  of  stars 
Shot  earthward,  came  her  look,  and  cloudy  gloom 
Opened,  and  full-orbed  love  meridian  shone. 


So  they  were  joined  forever.     He  had  learned 
All  that  distrust,  regret,  remorse  could  teach. 
Pardon  is  God's  own  gift,  but  blest  the  man 
Who  need  not  wait  for  death.     By  love  alone 
The  mysteries  are  solved.     He  stands  above 
All  doubt,  like  some  tall  sunlit  peak  that  lifts 


14 


258 


riVO    WORLDS. 


[1855 


Its  head  above  the  chaos  of  the  storm. 

Her  voice  all  full  of  jjeace,  came  with  her  look, 

As  breezes  come  with  sum'ise.     Winged  words 

Made  harmony  of  silence;  faintly  then 

She  murmured,  for  her  boldness  shrank  away. 

To  utter  all  her  timid  secret  out. 

"  Speak  not  of  severed  hopes,  for  yours  are  mine," 

She  said,  "  and  yours  shall  brighten  twined  witli  mine. 

And  oh !  if  this  is  love,  that  I  have  longed 

To  find,  why  need  I  longer  veil  my  heart  ?  ' 

First  and  forever  you  are  there  enshrined." 

He  waited,  hardly  daring  to  believe 

His  happiness,  then  shook  off  the  dead  past, 

And  took  her  to  his  heart  eternally. 

I  leave  theu'  perfect  union;  they  shall  find 
Broad  regions  of  illumined  life,  with  glow 
Of  starry  radiance  from  her  vestal  fires, 
Rekindling  his  quenched  life;  for  noble  deeds 
Wait  him  who  dares  to  do  them;  a  sad  world 
To  cheer  and  cherish.     Leaderless  and  lost 
Brave  bands  of  warriors  straggle  on  the  field 
Unrallied,  but  let  an  Achilles'  shout 
Stagger  the  ranks  opposed,  a  hero  youth 
Brandish  a  hope  of  victory,  there  are 
Enough  to  throng  around  and  charge  with  him ! 


Evening  had  stolen  on.     Distracting  day 

Had  sunk  below  the  world.     Night  veiled  the  earth. 

The  vast  unknown  of  skies  was  hid  with  stars, 

Belted  Orion  strode  along  the  blue. 

No  moon  was  risen  in  the  east,  they  saw 


55 


B. 


iEx.  27] 


LOVE. 


259 


\ 


Only  the  infinite  sky,  only  the  stars. 

Her  hand  in  his,  as  surety  of  love, 

They  walked  in  trance  of  silence,  or  with  words 

Rushing  too  swiftly  in  tumultuous  bliss. 

She  told  him  of  the  God  who  had  been  near 

Her  childhood— oh  how  far  from  his  hot  youth  !— 

Of  duty  stern,  but  true  as  faithfiU  friend; 

All  she  had  dreamed  of  woman's  tenderness 

For  noble  man,  ideal  till  he  came. 

She  turned  the  pages  of  pure  maiden  thought 

Fair  as  a  missal  delicately  wi-ought 

By  some  secluded  convent's  patient  love. 

His  long  forgotten  prayers  returned,  as  free 

As  when  a  ship,  long  tugging  at  her  chains, 

Sails  onward,  white  winged,  over  boundless  deeps. 


III! 


I  .  I 


1 .  < 

if; 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

LAW  AND  AUTHORSHIP. 

DURING  the  summer  of  1855,  and  just  before  going 
to  Mount  Desert,  Winthrop  was  admitted  to  the 
l)ar  of  New  York  and  he  continued  in  the  office  of 
Mr.  Tracy  for  a  year  or  more.  The  Fremont  Presi- 
dential canipjiign  found  him,  with  all  the  ardent  youth 
of  the  North,  awake  and  alive  to  the  issues,  that  were  to 
be  fought  out,  as  was  then  supposed,  by  the  ballot  alone. 
Already  the  prairie  ftros  of  Kansas  were  kindling  and 
spreading  over  the  land,  farther  and  wider  than  we 
knew.  Winthrop  went  first  to  the  Adirondacks,  and 
then  to  Maine,  with  his  dear  friend  Frederic  E.  Church, 
where  they  sjient  some  weeks  in  fishing,  camping  out, 
and  enjoying  life  in  the  wilderness,  uj)on  the  lakes  and 
rivers  with  unpronounceable  names  that  they  delighted 
in.  A  charming  sketch  of  this  tour  mav  be  found  in 
the  volume  of  "Winthrop's  works  called  "  Life  in  the 
Open  Air,"  wliich  also  contains  his  critique,  written 
con  amove,  of  his  friend  Church's  famous  "  Heart  of  the 
Andes,"  where  he  shows  in  his  prose  picture,  that  his 
knowledge  of  mountains  and  their  architecture  was 
equal  to  that  of  the  painter.  Finding  that  stump 
speakers  were  wanted  in  Maine,  he  made  his  first 
essay  in  that  direction,  on  the  edge  of  the  great 
Northern  wilderness,  before  small  assemblies  of  farmers 


^T.  27] 


/f    STUMP    ORATOR. 


261 


and  lumbennen,  in  townships  now  probably  nourish- 
ing, but  till  then  hardly  ever  heard  of  beyond  their 
state.  The  following  letter  relates  some  of  his  experi- 
ences as  a  stump  orator. 

"  Mb.  Abmer  Toothakkr'8, 
"Rungely,  Maim'. 
"Aug.  20Ui,  1856. 

"  Dear  Mother, — After  a  progress  up  the  Andros- 
coggin, through  lakes  Umbagog,  Allegundebagog, 
Weelokenabacook,  Mollyclumkamug,  Moosetock- 
niaguntick,  and  Oquossok  or  Lakwockit,  and  after 
being  obliged  to  pronounce  these  jaw-breakers  con- 
stantly, we  find  ourselves  naturally  at  home  with 
Mr.  Toothaker.  His  beautiful  farm  lies  sloping 
down  to  the  bank  of  the  last  named  lake,  with  an 
exquisite  view  of  the  same,  and  noble  mountain 
possibilities,  just  now  obscured  by  the  dark  mists 
of  a  North  Easterly  storm.  This  stays  us  liere 
now  the  second  day,  in  the  comfortable  quarters 
of  <i  thriving  farmer. 

"Church  has  of  course  made  himself  popular  with 
all  hands.  The  bag-wrinkled,  leathern-skinned  ha^* 
of  a  grandmother  has  told  us  her  history  several 
comical  times.  Mr.  Toothaker  had  just  returned 
from  a  Fremont  meeting,  at  the  neighboring  county 
town,  when  we  arrived,  and  finding  me  sympathiz- 
ing,  he  immediately  proposed  to  get  up  a  meeting 
here.  Yesterday  proved  rainy  and  not  a  hay  day, 
and  accordingly  a  nnm  arrived  in  a  curious  gig 
(which   himself  had   manufactured  th«^  afternoon 

before).     Mr.  T chartered  him  for  a  dollar  to 

go  round  and  beat  up  the  country  with  the  news 


! 


^|i 


.11   .i 


III 


m 

m 

I  III 


262 


r^iE:    M£D    SCHOOL   HOUSE. 


[1856 


that  Mr.  T.  W of  New  York  would  give  a  lec- 
ture on  politics  at  the  Red  School  House  in  the 
Maple  lot  at  five  p.  m.  The  weather  continuing 
favorably  rainy,  our  hardy  fellow  citizens  turned 
out  from  a  circuit  of  about  ten  miles — about  sixty 
men  and  twenty  women  with  three  crybabies,  who 
coming  with  applause  in  the  wrong  place,  were 
put  out,  (as  were  the  mothers).  I  spoke  an  hour 
and  three  quarters  currently,  covering  briefly  the 
whole  ground  of  controversy  and  invented  one  an- 
ecdote about  a  man  and  wife  and  son  Johnny. 
The  audience  seemed  to  think  it  was  about  right 
in  length  and  style,  and  we  closed  with  great  good 
humor  and  three  cheers.  Mr.  Toothaker  seemed 
to  think  I  had  converted  all  the  doubters,  includ- 
ing '  Winthrop  Elder,'  '  who  always  thinks  as 
the  last  man  tells  him.'  The  men  of  Maine  are 
freemen,  and  pretty  decided  for  freedom,  whenever 
they  are  thoroughly  informed  about  the  exact  state 
of  the  case.  The  first  part  of  our  journey  in  the 
Adirondacks  paid  only  moderately,  though  we  had 
some  good  things,  including  the  self-explored  ascent 
of  the  highest  summit.  We  came  across  to  Mont- 
pelier,  where  we  parted  from  the  Tracy  family,  they 
going  to  Mount  Desert.  Thence  by  stage,  a  beau- 
tiful trip,  across  to  Lake  Memphremagog  and  so 
through  wild  country,  up  the  chain  of  Lakes;  hir- 
ing boats  and  making  portages.  Well  and  hearty; 
battening  on  pork  and  blueberry  pies. 
"  Yours  attectionatelv, 

"Theo.  Winthrop." 


t 


( 


iEx.  28] 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


263 


During  the  remainder  of  the  Autumn  be  spoke  for 
Fremont  on  Staten  Island  and  elsewhere.  Several 
fragmentary  poems  express  the  feelings  of  this  hour 
of  struggle  and  failure. 

Low  as  the  earliest  whispers  of  a  gale, 
Faint  as  the  sunrise  greetings  of  a  dove, 
Soft  as  the  questions  of  uncertain  love, 

Thin  as  a  di'eam,  and  as  a  fancy,  frail. 

So  low  is  a  young  nation's  whispered  voice, 
So  faint  are  the  first  warnings  that  it  hears, 
So  soft  its  questioned  hopes,  subdued  by  fears. 

So  thin  its  new  ideals,  frail  its  choice. 

But  soon  a  gale  raves  madly  through  the  sky, 
Weird  sunrise  enters,  choired  by  myriad  birds. 
Leaves  whisper  hopes,  and  mutter  boding  words, 

Wild  clouds  theii'  blood-red  banners  wave  on  high. — 
•         •••..•., 

Oh  how  it  sweeps  along  the  land  I 

Voice  of  a  race  that  will  be  free  I 
Vaster  growing  on  every  hand — 

The  master-roar  of  Liberty. 

Shame !  shame  I  shame  over  all  the  land ! 

Shame  for  the  trust  we  make  a  lie ! 
Dare  we  longer  faithless,  faithless  stand 

Claiming  van-guard  posts  of  Liberty  ? 

Shame  for  the  careless  yielding  North, 
Weakly  pitjdng  darkest,  darkest  wrong, 

Shame  for  the  cowards,  peeping  shivering  forth 
To  stare  with  blinking  eyes  upon  the  strong. 


< 


% 


264 


ST.    LOUIS. 


[185C 


m  ',   I    : 


\:\'. 


In  the  autumn  of  1856,  after  the  ending  of  the  Fre- 
mont campaign  had  crushed  the  ardent  hopes  for  a 
peaceful  solution  of  the  great  questions  that  were 
torturing  all  minds  and  hearts — for  truly  they  were 
heartfelt  and  vital — and  it  even  seemed  to  some,  that 
submission  to  the  slave  power  was  inevitable,  Winthrop 
received  a  generous  invitation  from  his  dear  friend 
Henry  Hitchcock  of  St.  Louis,  to  come  to  him  and 
become  his  law  partner.  Hitchcock  was  already  a 
well-known  and  successful  lawyer  there,  and  Winthrop, 
delighted  with  the  oflfer,  went  to  St.  Louis,  full  of  his 
usual  sanguine  hopes  of  success.  He  had  relatives 
there  who  were  kind  to  him,  and  the  society  of  that 
h(jsi)itable  city  was  very  i)leasant.  As  the  warai 
weather  came  on,  however,  he  became  seriously  ill, 
and  the  climate  proved  so  injurious  and  unhealthy  to 
him  that  he  decided  to  return  to  New  York,  and  re- 
mam  there,  taking  an  office  with  his  brother  and 
brother-in-law. 

While  in  St.  Louis  he  became  deeply  attached  to  a 
young  lady  whose  discouragement  of  his  suit  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  his  leaving  that  place.  She 
spent  the  following  winter,  however,  in  New  York,  and 
they  became  engaged  to  be  married,  if  on  her  side  it 
could  have  been  called  an  engagement.  Winthrop 
certainly  cansidered  it  so,  and  was  very  happy  in  it, 
not  drearaing  that  she  could  prove  vacillating  or  false 
to  him.  But  during  the  following  year  she  suddenly 
broke  oif  the  affair,  unwilling  probably  to  wait  tiU 
fortune  came  to  him,  and  caused  him  great  sorrow 
and  misery.  He  took  refuge  from  his  grief  in  literary 
work,  and  his  stories  of  "  Cecil  Dreeme,"  and  "  Edwin 
Brothertoft,"  show  how  he  worked  off  the  bitterness 


Mr.  28] 


LOy£    POEMS. 


265 


of  his  soul,  caused  by  what  he  felt  to  be  treachery  and 
betrayal  of  his  confidence.  Doubtless  in  time  he  came 
to  consider  that  what  had  happened  was  for  the  best, 
since  the  heart  he  trusted  was  unworthy  of  his  love. 
A  crayon  sketch  by  Rowse  was  taken  of  him  not 
long  after  this  disappointment,  and  bears  the  marks 
of  sorrow,  in  the  pathetic  and  beautiful  face.*  Many 
love  poems  natui'ally  had  birth  during  this  period  of 
hope  and  grief.     Here  are  a  few  of  them. 

TO  ONE  I  KNOW. 

It  was  not  love,  not  love  I  told; 

Perhaps  she  had  not  listened  then. 
My  voice  was  low,  my  words  were  cold, 
With  dread  lest  she  should  deem  me  bold, 

And  frown,  whene'er  I  spoke  again. 

I  crushed  the  fire  that  would  have  broke, 

1 

My  words  were  firmly,  coldly  calm. 
No  tender  tone  stole  through  and  woke 
My  heart's  resistless  maddening  stroke. 

To  dash  her  peace  with  wild  alarm. 

Thanks,  lady !  truest  thanks,  I  said ; 

Oh !  gloom  and  faithless  death  were  mine. 
Till  some  peace-angel  gracious,  led 
Thy  radiant  presence  here,  to  shed 

Pure  glorj',  radiantly  divine ! 

Oh !  hearts  like  thine,  all  proudly  pure. 
All  purely  proud,  and  maiden  free, 

Need  not  such  gentle  touch  to  cure 

Their  torture,  teaching  to  endure. 

My  heart  was  touched  to  peace  by  thee. 

•  The  engraved  portrait  is  taken  from  this. 


I 


1 


266 


LOVE   rOEMS. 


[1856 


Thanks !  we  have  met,  and  worthier  now 

I  pass  to  front  and  conquer  fate. 
Be  life  or  pain,  or  bliss,  my  brow  * 
Shall  wear  the  hopes  thy  hopes  endow, 

The  strength  thy  words  create. 

—{July  26th,  1856.) 


HOMAGE. 


Pauses  in  that  brilliant  music  came 
Whose  brazen  wildness  set  my  soul  aflame, — 
We  sat  where  solemnly  the  moonlight  fell; 
Around  us  eddying  the  silken  throng. 

Softly  white  moonlight  slept  upon  the  hills, 
Paly  fair  moonlight  dreamed  the  vales  along; 

Rare  breezes  came  with  shadow-stirring  thrills. 

And  I  was  whispering  in  so  low  a  tone, 
It  seemed  the  echo  of  my  soul  alone. 
I  dared  not  look  into  her  large  dark  eyes, 
So  dreamy  earnest,  sweetly  tender,  they 

Were  bending  moonbeams  toward  her  vestal  soul, 
Were  learning  holier  things  than  I  could  say; 

New  lights  from  gentle  moonlit  heaven  they  binle. 

'Twas  not  of  love  I  spoke — of  deepest  thanks; 
The  days  I  marshaled  into  kneeling  ranks. 
Each  murmuring  thanks  for  every  joy  she  gave. 
Oh  I  they  had  linked  along  in  dreary  tramp. 

To  gloom,  (sad  captives,)  and  uncertainty, 
Chained,  marching  to  the  future  as  a  camp 

Of  foes,  but  queenly  then  she  set  them  free. 


:l      li 


1856 


Mt.  28] 


LOy£    POEMS. 


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56.) 


So,  kindly  thus  we  parted;  Hlie  had  known 
That  not  without  one  triumph  Hfe  had  flown. 
Her  keenly-brilliant  dazzlinp;  thoujjfhts  had  Htirred 
One  chaos,  and  my  heart's  blood  lichly  flowed 

To  beats  of  noble  music,  j^randly  pure. 
The  gift  of  faith  o'er  days  of  darkness  glo^ved, 

Imperishably  cheering,  to  endure. 

Again  she  passed  the  brilliant  crowd  among; 
Ai'ound  her  pressed  the  eager  listening  throng, 
She  queenliest;  but  her  backward  glances  turned. 
And  then  were  softer,  sweeter,  where  I  stood. 

Calm  in  my  yielded  thought,  and  dreamier  then 
Life,  death,  love,  heaven,  with  an  errant  brood 

Of  hopes,  made  thought  a  labyrinth  again. 


m 


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le. 


LOVE  COMES! 

Love  comes  as  thoughts  come;  unjDerceived  at  first. 
They  live  within,  and  grow,  absorbing  all 
Our  life.     Astonished  we  perceive  ourselves 
Their  slaves.     Some,  sudden  burst,  full  voiced 
Upo    the  mind,  as  birds  gush  forth  in  song. 
Far  in  a  deep  and  silent  wilderness. 


Love  comes  like  music!  stealing  thro'  the  night, 
And  drawing  nearer,  ncurer,  till  we  seem 
Involved  in  harmony,  fast  bound  in  song, 
Willing,  yet  prisoned.     Or  like  mjirtial  tones 
Bursting  forth  wild,  and  making  silence  sweet 
With  gushing  thrills  and  eager  trembling  swells. 
Silence  that  longed  and  waited  for  its  power. 


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268 


ZC^r^"   POEMS. 


[1857 


Love  comes  as  winds  come  !     There  are  gentle  winds, 

Breathed  soft  as  children's  laughter  on  the  air, 

Upon  our  souls,  that  stronger,  mightier  grow, 

And  sweej)  us  with  them,  and  wiU  bear  us  on 

To  havens  in  eternity — then  die 

In  the  pure  ether  that  is  life  and  love — 


SONG. 


Listen,  listen,  listen  while  I  sing ! 
There's  mirth,  mirth  in  everything ! 
In  laughing  eyes,  quick  glance, 
In  dashing  thro'  a  dance. 
Mirth  ever  doth  my  soul  entrance. 

Listen,  listen,  listen  while  I  sing ! 

There's  joy,  joy  in  everything ! 

In  bubbling  of  fresh  streams, 

In  flo'ihing  sunlight  beams: 

Joy  sparkles  through  my  pensive  dreams. 

Listen,  listen,  listen  while  I  sing ! 
There's  hope,  hope  in  everything ! 
In  gloom  and  chill  and  night, 
When  lost  the  guiding  light, 
Hope  rises,  radiantly  bright. 

Listen,  listen,  listen  while  I  sing ! 
There's  love,  love  in  everything ! 
If  joy  and  hope  must  die, 
Still  I  can  upward  fly; 
Love  lifts  my  spirit  to  the  sky ! 


1857 
lids, 


JEt.  29] 


LOl^E  FOE  MS. 


HER  VOICE. 


269 


It  chanced  in  bitter  mood  I  sadly  gazed 
Upon  a  scene  whose  winter  chilled  my  heart, 
Methought  I  wandered  in  a  desert  maze ; 
Aimless  and  hopeless  there  I  strayed  apart. 

Aimless,  down  lonely,  gray,  and  solemn  wastes, 
No  landmarks  there  save  mounds  of  those  who  died, 
No  fountains  save  of  death  to  him  who  tastes. 
Lured  by  false  sweetness  in  the  poisoned  tide. 

Whereat  I  paused,  and  dwelt  with  folded  hands. 
And  said,  I  will  be  coward,  lingering  here; 
To-day  less  darkling  than  to-morrow  stands; 
Let  me  a  moment  cheat  the  fate  I  fear. 

Strange  souls  of  ours !    It  was  no  despot  voice, 
Harsh,  urgent,  full  of  discord,  like  the  tone 
Of  battle  trumpet,  that  recalled  my  choice, 
To  march,  to  war,  to  win  a  grave,  or  throne  I 

A  gentle  music  lured  me  on,  and  lo ! 
With  light  beyond,  as  caught  from  lovely  eyes 
I  saw  a  path  across  the  deserts  grow, — 
Beyond  them,  mountain  vales  of  freshness  rise. 

And  listening  to  those  tones  my  heart  grew  calm. 
And  following  still  those  eyes,  my  vision  clear 
Saw  pictures  of  the  future  sweep  along. 
Tender,  and  fair,  and  sweet,  as  Thou  most  dear ! 


•i 

i 


i.  '' 


■I 


270 


LOVE  POEMS. 


SONNET. 


[1857 


Thy  words  of  peacefulness  have  been  my  stay, 
On  thy  sweet  features  long  my  heart  has  dwelt, 
Till  all  their  soft  enchantment  it  has  felt. 
Nor  from  these  tender  bonds  can  I  away. 
Strong  fetters  I  could  burst  like  giant  play, 
But  thou  hast  thrown,  until  I  cannot  move. 
Round  me  the  silken  bondage  of  thy  love, 
And  ever  thou  recall'st  me  when  I  stray. 
Gladly  henceforth  my  wanderings  I  resign ; 
For  we  are  ever  wandering  after  bliss; 
But  is  there  purer  happiness  than  this. 
That  I  have  won  thee,  and  can  call  thee  mine  ? 
Since  from  thy  radiance  a  wakening  ray 
Burst  through  my  night  and  changed  it  into  day ! 


U: 


At  her  shrine 
He  knelt  and  vowed  a  noblest  worthiness. 
Thoughts  of  a  future  fell  upon  his  soul. 
Like  soundings  of  a  far-off,  mighty  sea. 


SONNET. 

Tell  me,  wide  wandering  soul,  in  all  thy  quest 
Sipping  or  draining  deep  from  crystal  rim 
Where  pleasure  sparkled,  when  did  overbrim 
That  draught  its  goblet  with  the  fullest  zest  ? 
Of  all  thy  better  bliss  what  deem'st  thou  best  ? 
Then  thus  my  soul  made  answer.     Ecstasy 
Comes  once,  like  birth,  like  death,  and  once  have  I 
Been,  oh!  so  madly  lifipi)y,  that  the  rest 


[1857 


Mt.  29] 


LOVE   POEMS. 


I  y 


271 


Is  tame  as  surgeless  seas.     It  was  a  night 
Sweet,  beautiful  as  she,  my  love,  my  light; 
Fair  as  the  memory  of  that  keen  delight. 
Through  trees  the  moon  rose  steady,  and  it  blessed 
Her  forehead  chastely.     Her  uplifted  look, 
Calm  with  deep  passion,  I  for  answer  took, 
Then  sudden  heart  to  heart  was  wildly  pressed. 


He  who  has  known  great  grief 
Never  can  be  too  happy !     For  he  shrinks 
From  bliss,  lest  it  should  light  upon  his  hearth 
Then  fly  and  leave  it  lonely. 


HOPES. 

Dare  I  breathe  it  softly  sweet  ? 
Listen,  heart  of  mine,  my  secret'hear  I 
Soon  nobler  tones  my  soul  shall  greet ! 
Soon  that  dear  music  shall  be  near; 

One  is  coming  from  the  sunset  that  I  love  ! 

Trembling  at  the  bliss  that  waits, 

Ah !  might  I  boldly  enter  in ! 

Needs  there  pureness,  penance  at  the  gates  ? 

Painless  may  I  heaven  hope  to  win  ? 

When  from  sunset  comes  the  angel  of  my  love  ? 

Only  hopes,  delicious  hopes? 
False  ?    No !  that  can  never  be ! 
Fatal  word !  how  sudden  darkness  opes 
Downward,  to  a  drear  eternity ! 

Night  falls  upon  the  sunset  of  my  love ! 


'  •: 


*i 


t 


hi 


272  LOP-E  POEMS.  [1858 

Oh !  'tis  kind 
In  Nature,  that  the  mind  must  slowly  sound 
The  deepest  depth  of  sorrow,  ere  the  heart 
Begins  to  know  its  misery. 


FINIS. 


This  is  my  song  of  love ! 

The  dawn  of  love ! 

ChiU  dawn  of  love  I 
Shiver  my  icy  heart; 
As  the  cold  mists  depart, 
Blushes  the  sky. 

This  is  my  song  of  love  I 

Sunrise  of  love ! 

Bright  radiant  love ! 
Oh !  sudden  beauty  everywhere ! 
Fair  earth,  and  heaven  still  more  fair  ! 
Life  ever  new ! 

This  is  my  song  of  love  I 

Rich  noon  of  love ! 

Fullness  of  love ! 
My  tidal  passion's  flow 
Quivers  with  radiant  glow  1 
Oh  I  nobly  bright ! 

This  is  my  song  of  love  I 

Sinking  of  love ! 

Dwindling  of  love  I 
Thinner  and  thinner  streams, 
Fainter  and  fainter  gleams, 
Fading  away ! 


■ 


1858 


Mt.  29-30] 


AUTHORSHIP. 


273 


This  is  my  song  of  love ! 

The  night  of  love ! 

Black  gloom  of  love ! 
Still  stands  my  dying  heart. 
Hopes  utterly  depart! 
Terror  returns! 

This  is  my  curse  of  love ! 

Traitor  and  liar,  love ! 

My  clenched  curse  of  love ! 
Oh  God !  I  cannot  die ! 
Thine  heaven  is  agony ! 
No  love !    No  love ! 


V 


Taking  courage  after  a  while,  he  went  on  with  his  law 
practice,  and  most  of  all  with  his  writings;  steadily,  dur- 
ing the  few  more  years  that  were  left  to  him,  prepar- 
ing his  published  writings  for  the  press.  They  were 
rejected  by  several  publishers,  but  he  remained  quiet, 
waiting  and  re-casting  them  again.  One  publisher  ac- 
cepted ."  John  Brent,"  on  the  condition  that  the  epi- 
sode of  the  death  of  the  horse  Don  Fulano,  killed  in 
being  the  instrument  of  saving  a  fugitive  slave,  should 
be  left  out  of  the  book.  It  was  a  temptation  to  Win- 
throp,  who  wished  above  all  things  to  gain  a  hearing, 
and  find  a  resting-place  for  his  lever,  but  he  resisted 
it,  strengthened  in  his  resolution  by  one  of  his  family, 
and  the  lever  was  not  firmly  placed  till  the  hand  that 
had  held  it  was  cold  in  death. 

One  opening,  however,  he  found,  and  it  cheered  and 
comforted  him  immensely.  In  18G0,  or  early  in  the 
spring  of  18(51,  he  sent  the  manuscript  of  "  Love  and 


274 


HIS    WORKS. 


[18G0 


I     !  \ 


Skates  "  to  James  Russell  Lowell,  then  editor  of  the 
Atlantic  who  received  it  gladly  and  with  a  few  words 
of  kindness  and  praise  that  went  to  his  heart.* 

The  stories  of  " Cecil  Dreeme  "  and  "Edwin  Brother- 
toft  "  were  written  when  his  heart  was  wrung  by  dis- 
appointment, and  are  pathetic  and  strong.  Man  de- 
lights me  not  nor  woman  neither,  was  the  tone  of  his 
feeling  at  that  period,  but  in  "John  Brent,"  "Love 
and  Skates,"  and  the  oj^ening  chapters  of  "  Brightly 's 
Orphan  " — printed  in  "  Life  in  the  Open  Air  " — he  is 
cheerful,  playful,  hopeful,  as  was  natural  to  his  really 
healthy  mind.  Like  Hawthorne,  even  when  he  is  sad- 
dest, he  is  not  morbid;  the  powers  of  evil  never  con- 
quer; "Densdeth  "  and  "Jane  Billup  "  never  win  the 
day,  but  show  us  with  almost  Puritan  and  Biblical  stern- 
ness, though  Avith  far  from  Puritan  creed,  how  sin  is 
its  own  punishment.  Even  sorrow  is  not  utter  dark- 
ness: light  prevails  in  the  end,  and  his  stories  are 
never  tragedies.  There  are  few  American  books  that 
have  more  of  the  true  spirit  of  American  life  than 
these;  of  the  East  and  the  West,  of  the  Plains,  and 
their  atmosphere  and  scenery — which  Joaquin  Miller 
has  well  said,  resemble  the  Holy  Land,  where  some 


*  As  Mr.  Lowell  is  absent  from  ihe  country  as  Minister  Pleni- 
potentiary to  England,  his  leave  to  publish  the  following  note  is 
assumed,  with  apology. 

"Cambridge,  25th  March,  1861. 

**My  Dear  Sir:— 

"You  need  have  no  misgivings  about  stamps.  I  shall  not 
let  so  good  a  story  escape  me  so  easily.  I  was  particularly 
pleased  with  it,  and  shall  try  to  print  it  in  June.  The  May 
number  is  already  full. 

•'  Very  truly  yours, 

"J.  R.  LOWELL." 

"Mlt.  WiNTHBOP." 


iii 


:l? 


Mt.  32] 


///S    irOA'A\S. 


275 


day  the  proj^liet  of  a  new  revelatiou  may  be  born, 
as  of  old  in  lonely  desert  places;  —  of  the  times 
of  the  Revolutionary  war  and  the  life  of  that  stronj^ 
period,  of  the  broad,  brimming,  Hudson  River,  and  the 
world  of  things  past  and  i)resent  which  it  floats  down 
to  us;  of  the  great  city  of  New  York,  the  wonderful 
natural  scenery  that  surrounds  it,  and  its  inner  life,  so 
little  understood  by  most  writers  of  fiction.  Beneath 
its  busy,  mercantile  and  rather  scampish  surface  he 
could  see  Truth,  Beauty,  Romance,  in  shoi-t  Humanity 
as  it  is,  and  is  everywhere,  not  exceptional  rottenness. 
Is  it  not  apparent  and  notable  that  one  of  the  great 
merits  of  Wintlirop's  writings  is  the  quality  of  con- 
struction; that  in  the  poems,  as  well  as  the  prose  writ- 
ings, in  parts  as  well  as  in  wholes,  evolution  and  struc- 
ture are  evident  ?  They  are  not  sketches  lightly  thrown 
off;  however  unfinished  some  of  those  may  be,  which 
he  never  thought  of  printing  in  their  present  form. 
The  shorter  poems  are  of  course  only  momentary  ex- 
pressions of  feeling,  and  valuable  not  so  much  for 
themselves,  as  being  illustrations  of  his  life,  but  in 
"  Two  Worlds,"  this  quality  is  plainly  visible,  and  still 
more  in  the  Tales.  None  of  the  minor  characters 
could  be  left  out,  none  of  the  circumstances  omitted. 
Armstrong  in  "  John  Brent,"  for  instance,  is  necessary 
to  give  a  certain  element  of  white  fury  and  strength 
to  that  immortal  ride  for  succor  and  love.  His  sim- 
plicity of  revenge  brings  some  one  in  to  "  do  the  kill- 
ing," that  must  have  made  a  dark  blood  stain  upon 
the  lives  of  Brent  and  his  companion,  which  they  surely 
would  have  regretted  forever.  When  he  says  of  his 
brother's  murder,  "  P'r'aps  his  ghost  come  round  and 
told  'em  'twarnt  the  fair  thing  they'd  been  at;  and 


\ 


27C 


///.S"    WORK'S. 


[1860 


^^1 


III 


i 

ii 

i 

il 

:     ,i 

II 

!    hi 
'  i 

it 

1 '  I 

i 

i  Hi 

i 

'twarnt;"  the  volume  of  Bimple  meaning  and  pathos 
in  that  last  word  is  as  fine  as  anything  in  the  book. 
The  characters  also  of  George  Short  and  Padiham 
could  not  be  omitted  in  bringing  out  the  denouement, 
while  in  detail  they  are  most  admirable.  The  affection 
of  Winthrop  for  his  brother  can  be  read  between  all 
the  lines  about  Armstrong,  and  lend  a  touching  mean- 
ing to  them.  Armstrong  must  have  been  taken  from 
the  life,  one  of  the  fine  fellows  among  the  pioneers 
and  "  kindly  roughs  "  he  met  on  the  Umpqua,  or  the 
Willamette.  The  personal  appearance  of  Ellen  Clitheroe 
is  described  from  a  beautiful  woman,  a  true  and  kind 
friend  of  his,  who  is  also  pictured  in  the  last  Chap- 
ter (V.)  of  "Two  Worlds." 

"Not  such  a  Margaret  as  one  I  know, 
With  tendril  curls  like  her  exquisite  thoughts; 
With  opalescent  eyes,  not  ignorant 
Of  flashes,  when  the  torrent  words,  too  slow, 
Dart  leaping  glances  into  caves  of  Truth, 
And  startle  unimagined  beauty  forth. 
As  darkly-fair,  as  delicately-bright. 
As  the  keen  edge  of  a  Damascus  blade. 
Engraved  with  tracery  of  flowers,  and  sharp 
To  cut  the  films  of  doubt  and  fear,  and  show 
All  nobleness." 

None  of  his  characters  were  taken  from  real  life 
however,  though  they  were  often  supposed  to  be. 
His  imagination  sufficed.  But  it  is  useless  to  attempt 
a  critique  of  works  which  have  been  before  the  public 
for  twenty  years  and  more,  which  stand  on  their  own 
merits,  and  have  lived  far  bej'ond  an  ephemeral  day, 


Mt.  32] 


///S    IVOKA'S. 


277 


!; 


and  become  American  classics.  Wintlirop's  life  was 
now  fast  hastening  to  a  close,  though  those  that  knew 
him  little  dreamed  that  this  brilliant  blooming,  and 
vigorous  fruit,  told  of  a  coming  end.  And,  indeed,  it 
was  not  so.  His  life,  cut  oif  in  its  early  prime,  would 
have  blossomed  more  abundantly,  would  liavc  brought 
forth  more  perfect  fruit,  mellow,  fully  ripened,  always 
wholesome.  He  wished  to  do  good  in  his  day  and  gen- 
eration, especially  to  the  young  men  of  his  country, 
and  also  to  do  real  artistic  literary  work,  and  to  gain 
fame.  "  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  to  form  a  truly  American 
style,  good  and  original,  not  imitated."  Of  "  Brightly  s 
Orphan  "  he  said,  "  I  have  written  sad  things  enough 
— I  am  going  to  write  something  cheerful."  If  his  Tales* 
show  the  traces  of  desjiair,  they  also  show  the  marks  of 
recovery,  of  new  life  and  hope.  He  fought  his  doubts 
of  human  nature,  and  gathered  strength  to  believe 
again  in  man  and  woman — indeed  a  book  that  con- 
tains such  characters  as  Churm  and  Clara  Denman, 
rocks  of  integrity,  from  which  fresh  springs  flow, 
cannot  be  said  to  be  morbid  or  despairing  in  any 
sense. 

Of  Theodore  Winthrop's  works,  "Cecil  Dreeme," 
the  first  volume  published,  was  the  last  written. 
"John  Brent,"  "Love  and  Skates,"  and  "Edwin 
Brothertoft"  were  separate  tales  in  a  book  called 
"  Brothertoft  Manor,"  and  all  bound  together  by  their 
connection  with  an  old  house  on  the  Hudson,  where  the 
personages  meet  and  tell  stories.  Peter  Skerret  tells 
the  tale  of  the  house  and  of  his  ancestors,  Richard 
Wade  his  experience  on  the  plains,  and  the  story  of 
his  friend  John  Brent,  "  Love  and  Skates "  follows 
as  the  sequel,  and  history  of  Richard  Wade  himself. 


^\ ' 


278 


CRITIQUE. 


[18G0 


Afterwards  this  book  was  recnst,  the  stories  scpaiated 
by  Wiuthrop,  and  \s\xi  into  their  jirescnt  form;  the 
same  characters  appearin<^  m  all.  This  method  of 
bringing  in  the  same  people  in  successive  books,  till 
they  seem  like  familiar  friends,  is  a  pleasant  one,  and 
has  been  practiced  by  Thackeray,  TroUope,  and  others. 
"  Cecil  Dreeme  "  was  a  sej^arate  story,  and  yet  Churm 
ajDpears  again,  and  Mary  Damer  is  alluded  to,  in  that 
book,  the  best,  perhaps,  though  not  the  most  popular, 
of  Winthrop's  stories. 

The  sketches  of  travel  were  written  at  dift'erent  times, 
and  their  dates  are  uncertain.  All  his  works  were  pub- 
lished posthumously,  and  none  of  them  received  his 
last  touches,  except  "  Love  and  Skates "  and  the 
sketches  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  His  name  of  "  Broth- 
ertoft  Manor,"  was  changed  to  "  Edwin  Brothertoft," 
by  the  desire  of  Mr.  James  T.  Fields,  who  also  sug- 
gested the  titles  for  the  two  volumes  of  "  The  Canoe 
and  the  Saddle,"  and  "Life  in  the  Open  Air." 

His  friend  George  William  Curtis  wrote  an  exquisite 
sketch  of  his  life  and  character,  which  was  printed  with 
the  first  published  story,  "Cecil  Dreeme."  It  would 
be  impossible  to  improve  upon  it,  for  it  is  done  with 
the  tenderness  and  affection  of  a  friend  and  the  skill 
of  a  finished  writer.  A  volume  might  be  made  of  the 
press  notices  of  his  death  and  of  his  writings,  but  such 
things  are  ephemeral.  Theophilus  Parsons,  George 
Bungay,  George  W.  Curtis  and  others  wrote  beautiful 
occasional  poems. 

Professor  John  Nichol  of  Glasgow,  in  his  interesting 
work  on  American  Literature,  a  book  which  we  would 
do  well  to  ponder,  gives  the  following  critique  upon 
the  writings  of  Theodore  Winthrop  whom  he  calls  "  a 


•; 


Mr.  32] 


CRITIQUE. 


279 


novelist,  traveler,  iiiiil  Holdier,  hindereil  l)y  the  Bhort 
Hpan  of  his  innocently  erratic  life,  from  Heeuring  the 
i:)lace  in  hi-,  country's  literature,  to  which,  in  the  es- 
timate of  those  who  knew  him  best,  ho  was,  hy  his 
genius  and  character,  entitled  to  aspire.  I  give  an 
outline  of  his  career,  condensed  or  quoted  from  the 
biographical   cameo,   i^refixed   to   the   edition   of  his 

works  by  his  friend  G.  W.  Curtis.* 

"  Winthrop's  wandering  life  was  a  hindrantre  to  the 
concentration  of  his  energies;  even  to  the  perfection 
of  his  style,  which  is  always  fresh  and  clear,  but  some- 
times rugged  and  dashing.  On  the  other  hand  the 
adventurous  activity  of  his  nature  is  the  source  of 
nuich  of  the  charm  of  his  work,  which  like  that  of 
Sydney,  to  whom  Mr.  Curtis  is  fond  of  com])aring 
him,  was  more  than  a  mere  promise.  His  claim  to  re- 
cognition lies  not  merely  in  his  having  V)een  an  actor 
as  well  as  a  dreamer,  but  in  the  fact  that  he  has  done 
substantial  and  peculiar,  though  imjDerfectly  a])i)re- 
ciated,  work.  He  belonged  in  part  to  the  class  (jf'the 
older  writers  in  whose  minds  incident  predominated, 
but  he  was  also  an  analyst  of  the  school  of  Hawthorne 
and  might,  with  length  of  years,  have  been  his  most 
legitimate  successor.  The  first  phase  is  re2)resented 
in  his  novel,  'John  Brent,'  in  great  measure  a  graphic 
record  of  his  experiences  in  the  far  West,  mingled  with 
imaginative  romance.     The  descriptive  passages  in  this 

*  Professor  Nichol,  who  has  the  chair  of  English  Literature  in 
Glasgow  University,  and  who  is  well  known  among  authors  and 
literary  men  in  Scotland,  traveled  in  this  country  during  the 
early  part  of  the  Civil  War,  and  was  deeply  interested  and 
moved  by  the  crisis.  Returning  home,  he  took  an  active  part 
in  the  endeavors  of  the  friends  of  our  country  in  Scotland  to 
prevent  injury  to  its  cause,  by  measures  that  nearly  brought 
about  serious  difficulties  with  Great  Britain. 


li  I 


s    ! 


fUt;! 


f:  ■, 


''i|:jvl 


'  ; 


280 


CRITIQUE. 


[1860 


book,  especially  that  of  the  chase,  rivet  our  attention 
because  they  are  brought  into  contrast  with  scenes  of 
emotion  and  passion,  and  are  not  mere  transcripts  of 
still  life." 

Of  "  Edwin  Brothertoft "  he  makes  the  following  re- 
mark, among  others  too  long  to  quote. 

"The  flame  latent  in  the  shadowy  race,  the  force 
under  gentleness  which  is  the  theme  of  the  book  here 
leaps  up,  as  the  hero  turns  toward  Vandyke's  portrait 
of  his  great  ancestor, — '  I  love  England,  I  love  Oxford ; 
the  history,  the  romance,  and  the  hope  of  England  are 
all  packed  into  that  grand  old  casket  of  learning;  but 
the  Colonel  embarked  us  on  the  Continent.  He  would 
frown  if  we  gave  ujj  the  great  sliij),  and  took  to  the 
little  pinnace  again.'  'Cecil  Dreeme,'  less  startling  in 
its  episodes,  which  are  yet  of  sufficient  interest,  is  a 
novel  of  a  finer  grain  than  Brothertoft.  It  is  more 
mature  and  subdued  in  style,  and  more  free  from 
violences:  mystery  takes  the  place  of  horror 

"  Ai)art  from  its  startling  situations,  the  book  teems 
with  passages  of  power,  penetration,  and  pastoral  beau- 
ty, e.  g.,  the  chapter  called  *  Nocturne,'  with  the  de- 
scription of  night,  *  the  day  of  the  base,  the  guilty  and 
the  desolate;'  that  headed  'Lydian  Measures,'  or  the 
previous  reference  to  the  effect  of  a  fragrance,  a  far- 
away sound,  a  weft  of  cloud,  the  leap  of  a  sunbeam, 
or  the  carol  of  a  bird  in  arresting  a  treachery  or  a 
crime;  nor  is  the  book  wanting  in  occasional  touches 
of  even  broad  humor.  With  all  its  defects  of  irregular 
construction,  this  novel  is  marked  by  a  more  distinct 
vein  of  original  genius  than  any  American  work  of 
fiction  known  io  us  that  has  appeared  since  the  au- 
thor's death.    Winthrop's  nature  was  essentially  sad, 


^T.  32] 


CRITIQUE. 


281 


though  robust,  his  cynicism  was  healthy,  because  he 
beheved  in  goodness,  his  strength  in  its  excess  may 
be  charged,  though  rarely,  with  coarseness,  but  lie  is 
incapable  of  vulgarity.     He  has  not  the  almost  un- 
erring taste  of  Hawthorne;  his  phrases  are  sometimes 
flippant,  his  occasional  mannerisms  not  free  from  pe- 
dantry, but  he  is  exceptionally  genuine:  his  rare  cheer- 
fulness exhilarates,  his   prevailing   melancholy  takes 
possession.of  the  reader.     His  'Life  in  the  Open  Air' 
and  minor  sketches  are  inspired  by  the  nature- worship 
of  Thoreau,  animated  by  a  broader  humanity.     An 
American  to  the  core,  Winthrop  has  jill  the  artistic 
fondness  for  Europe  that  pervades  the  'Marble  Faun' 
of  his  predecessor;  his  memory  lingers  over  the  'fair 
spires  and  towers,  and  dreamy  cloisters,  dusky  chapels, 
and  rich  old  halls  of  beautiful  Oxford.' 

"  Manliness  and  intensity  are  the  leading  character- 
istics of  this  'fresh,  earnest,  unflinching'  spirit,  who 
foreshadows  in  these  words  the  close  and  cro4n  of 

his  brief  and  bright  career: 

"'If  the  soul  in  the  man  has  good  hope  and  good 
courage,  through  all  his  tones  sounds  the  song  of  hope, 
ajid  the  pcean  of  assured  victory.     ........' 

"Whoever  has  lived,  knows  that  timely  death  is 
the  great  prize  of  hfe;  who  can  regret,  when  a  worthy 
soul  wins  it  ?  "  * 


The  possibility  of  such  a  horse  as  Don  Fulano  has 
been  denied,  but  he  is  described  in  his  note-books  and 
more  fully  in  the  "  Canoe  and  the  Saddle,"  as  a  reaUty, 
and  his  wonderful  leap  through  the  Insso,  as  an  act- 

*  "American  Literature,"  by  John  Nichol,  LL.D..  Prof   of 
Eug.  Lit.  in  the  University  of  Glasgow.     Page  370. 


mm 


\i'-} 


282 


INCOMPLETE    TALES. 


[1860 


ual  fact.  Luggernel  alley  on  the  other  hand,  is  now 
pointed  out  at  the  West,  it  is  said,  though  Winthrop 
drew  it  from  his  imagination,  not  having  seen  exactly 
such  a  place.  It  was  partly  like  several  such  wild  glens, 
which  he  had  seen,  and  heard  of,  and  resembles  some- 
what the  valley  of  Manitou  near  Colorado  Springs,  where 
he  had  probably  never  been.  Among  his  unpublished 
writings  are  three  chapters  of  a  story  called  "  The 
Hemlocks,"  the  beginning  of  another  called  "The 
Stoningers,"  a  chapter  or  two  of  "  Steers  Flotsam  and 
how  he  came  to  Port,"  printed  posthumously  in  the 
St.  Nicholas  Magazine,  Dec.  1879,  under  the  title  of 
"  Bowing  against  Tide,"  and  various  other  fragments, 
besides  "  Mr.  Waddy's  Return,"  his  first  novel,  before 
spoken  of.  Soon  after  his  death  the  house  of  Ticknor 
&  Fields  of  Boston  requested  to  become  the  publishers 
of  any  posthumous  works  of  his  that  might  remain, 
and  this  oflfer  was  accepted.  They  proved  tender  and 
enthusiastic  friends  and  guardians  of  his  name  and 
fame. 


[1860 


8  now 
throiD 
sactly 
?lens, 
jome- 
vhere 
ished 
'The 
"The 
.  and 
1  the 
le  of 
ents, 
Bfore 
knor 
jhers 
Qain, 
and 
and 


CHAPTER    IX 


THE  WAK. 


A  FTER  his  return  from  St.  Louis,  Theodore  Win- 
-^  throp  remained  quietly  upon  the  north  shore  of 
Staten  Island,  where  the  larp^e  and  united  family  lived 
together  in  one  home.  A  pleasant  social  circle  sur- 
rounded them.  Frederic  Cnurch  was  their  frequent 
visitor,  Francis  George  Shaw,  Sydney  Howard  Gay, 
George  William  Curtis,  and  other  true  and  tried 
friends  were  constantly  with  them,  and  the  little 
band  of  earnest  thinkers  and  ardent  lovers  of  their 
country  had  long  talks  and  consultations,  as  the  p(3- 
litical  horizon  grew  darker,  while  fears  of  war,  min- 
gled with  fears  of  what  was  worse,  some  shameful 
compromise,  infected  even  the  children  of  the  house 
with  a  vague  anxiety.  Thus  the  long,  long  winter 
wore  away,  and  that  spring  came  at  last. 

Who  does  not  remember  the  opening  year  of  1861, 
when  war  was  gathering  in  the  air,  when  "  men's  hearts 
failed  them  for  fear,  and  for  looking  for  the  things  that 
were  coming  on  the  earth,"  when  the  warmth  of  that 
wonderfully  early  spring  seemed  portentous,  and  the 
premature  thunder-storms,  omens  of  evil  ?  Yet  no  one 
really  dreamed  of  what  was  coming.  Some  said,  it  will 
be  a  short  struggle  and  soon  over,  and  many  slept. 


J 


284 


PART  INC 


[1801 


I:!:: 


!    .l   ' 

A  , 

1' 

f'      ■ 

.  ■ 

! 

; 

i      ■ 

' 

:  ;    ■ 

■  " 

If'!' 


I  4 


hrrf 


"WTiat  need  to  tell  the  ntill  fftniilijir  story.  Tlu^  Guns  of 
Sumter  awoke  the  North,  and  their  echo  roaehod  even 
quiet  Staten  Island,  where  the  Lotos  is  tlic  common 
food  of  the  inhabitants.  Winthrop  came  to  his  mother 
and  friends,  as  soon  as  h(;  hoard  of  the  call  for  troops, 
to  say  that  he  and  his  brother  AVilliam  luid  decided  to 
join  the  Seventh  Regiment,  and  they  both,  only  sons 
of  their  mother,  marched  away  on  April  17th,  gayly, 
yet  gravely  too,  as  became  good  soldiers.  He  said  to 
his  mother  at  parting,  "  I  do  not  take  this  ste])  hghtly," 
and  to  his  uncle  Theodore  Woolsey  he  wrote,  "  I  go 
to  put  an  end  to  slavery." 

How  few  then  felt  the  real  nature  ol  the  conflict,  or 
prophesied  the  agony  almost  to  death,  that  was  to 
come  for  our  Mother  Country,  when  she  wept  for  her 
children,  both  for  those  who  deserted  her,  and  for 
those  who  gave  her  their  lives !  How  little  those  who 
saw  those  beautiful  boys  march  away  on  that  April 
morning,  down  the  crowded  streets  of  New  York  ring- 
ing with  shouts  and  bright  with  flags,  dreamed  how 
many  of  them  would  never  see  another  opening  spring ! 
Some  of  them,  doubtless,  viewed  their  departure  as  a 
frolic,  but  with  many  it  was  a  serious  stej^,  undertaken 
thoughtfully,  knowing,  yet  not  knowing,  aU  that  they 
were  doing.  Robert  Shaw  was  with  them,  and  many 
more,  who  afterwards  did  the  noblest  things,  were 
the  foremost  tliat  day  to  make  the  only  decision  that 
could  have  been  made  by  manly  and  patriotic  young 
men.  But  how  little  we  knew !  How  coukl  our  Coun- 
try, after  so  many  years  of  peace  and  prosperity,  lying 
half  asleep  in  her  own  waving  cornfields,  how  could  she 
see,  until  her  eyes  were  touched  with  fire  by  the  dark 
angel !     Some  had  listened  to  the  clank  of  chains,  but 


.Ex.  32] 


THE    ''SEVENTHV 


285 


thoy  were  few.     Even  the  great  man  who  said,  "Irre- 
prossiblo  conflict,"  said  also,  "  It  will  be  a  six  weeks' 
allair."     Most  people  thought  that  the  struggle  would 
be  short  and  sharp,  that  the  North  would  overthrow 
Secession  with  i\\Q.  wind  of  its  advance,  nor  deemed 
how  terribly  in  earnest  was  the  South  in  its  delusion, 
liow  the  desire  for  Socessi(m  had  become  a  "fixed  idea," 
and  one  of  the  strongest  that  the  world  has  known, 
which  would  necid  other  logic  than  that  of  Time  and 
Reason  to  overthrow  it,  which  would  destroy  a  gener- 
ation of  men,  burn  up  the  gains  of  half  a  century,  and 
bring  sorrow  to  every  hearth  in  the  land,  so  that  the 
nations  would  hold  their  breath  witli  wonder.     There 
were  '-great  searchings  of  heart,"  there  were  warn- 
ings too,  if  there  had  been  skill  to  read  them,  but  per- 
haps it  was  better  not  to  know.     Though  all  were 
patriots  in  those  days,   what  heart  would  not  have 
failed  that  had  pictured  the  length  and  depth  and 
breadth  of  the  chasm,  and  the  ranks  upon  ranks  of 
our  l)cst  and  bravest  that  were  to  leap  into  that  gulf, 
ere  it  sliould  be  closed!     It  is  slowly  closing,  thank 
heaven!  and  a  new  hfe  is  springing  up  around  its 
scarred   and  ragged   sides;   but   ah!   let  North   and 
South,  East  and  West,  never  forget  the  lessons  of 
that  day. 


In  the  brilliant  papers  on  the  "  March  of  the  Seventh 
Regiment,"  and  "  Washington  as  a  Camp,"  written  by 
Theodore  Winthrop  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  we  can 
find  a  better  story  of  their  bright,  boyish  hfe  than  can 
be  told  to-day  in  any  other  words  than  his  own.  They 
were  a  crowd  of  willing,  eager,  inexperienced  youths, 
who  were  to  be  tried,  when  their  short  month  of  ser- 


286 


THE    ''SEVENTH: 


[1861 


!'j' 


isi 


.lij' 


nf 


tH  'if 


i  Ji  "i 

I 


vice  was  over,  by  harder  ordeals,  and  not  to  be  found 
wanting. 

When  the  Seventh  Regiment  returned,  Winthrop 
was  not  among  them.  So  ardent  was  he,  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  turn  his  back  even  for  a  moment 
upon  the  scene  of  conflict,  and  rather  than  do  nothing, 
and  not  be  in  the  midst  of  things,  he  staid  behind  as 
Military  Secretary  to  Gen.  Butler,  at  Fortress  Monroe, 
hoping  to  find  some  place  for  himself  at  the  fi'ont. 
The  following  letters  were  received  from  him  while  in 
Camp  and  at  Fortress  Monroe. 

Extract. 

"We  drill  now  constantly.  It  is  a  fine  sight, 
our  camp  and  its  work.  Washington  makes  it  the 
fashion.  But  Billy  and  1  both  want  to  be  where 
we  can  make  sure  of  the  hard  work  of  the  campaign. 
The  Seventh,  with  careful  secrecy  be  it  said,  has  as 
yet  but  little  stoujach  for  real  service.  .  .  .  They 
would  fight  well  enough,  but  half  the  men  in  it 
fancy  themselves  Hannibals,  and  fit  to  lead  armies, 
not  to  march  in  ranks.  They  have  the  faults  and 
the  merits  of  volunteers,  and  sigh  for  their  home- 
comforts  quite  too  much,  though  with  plenty  of 
good  material.  I  got  the  Field  Artillery — man}^ 
thanks;  it  was  what  1  wanted.  Give  my  love  to 
George  Curtis,  and  say  I  will  write  to  him  to-mor- 
row. Also  to  Gay,  and  ask  him  to  do  what  he  can 
for  me  in  his  cavalry  or  elsewhere.  I  want  to  get 
into  the  army.    My  chance  is  good,  but  who  knows? 

"  In  haste, 

"Theo.  Winthrop." 


Mr.  32] 


T//E    ''SEVENTH." 


287 


•'  Camp  Gabieuok,  Ntar  Washington,  May  10th,  1861. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  have  been  disabled  from  writ- 
ing for  several  days  by  an  inflamed  eye.  I  had  used 
it  too  much  in  writing  in  the  Capitol  by  imperfect 
light,  and  the  smoke  of  a  guard  fire  on  a  wet  night 
finished  me.  So,  for  a  few  days,  I  was  invalided, 
and  took  refuge  in  town  with  a  friend.  He  is  an 
old  soldier,  and  a  fellow  of  infinite  experience,  and 
1  have  had  a  capital  time  with  him.  At  camp 
things  go  on  in  order,  and  all  our  friends  look 
finely. 

"  Mr.  Fiske  sent  me  a  letter  to  Seward.  I  have 
seen  him  twice,  and  am  more  than  ever  convinced 
of  his  capability  to  do  his  part  in  the  crisis.  You 
have  read  his  masterly  letters  to  Dayton.  That  is 
the  only  ground  to  take,  as  you  know  I  have  be- 
lieved from  the  first.  Seward  and  the  others  avow 
that  they  did  not  anticipate  this  total  defection  of 
one  side,  nor  the  total  adhesion  of  the  other,  and 
so  at  first  we  were  paralyzed.  Now,  everything 
will  advance  as  fast  as  it  can. 

"Mr.  Seward  gave  me  a  letter  to  Cameron.  1 
hope  to  get  a  Captaincy  in  the  new  army.  But 
who  can  say?  there  are  a  dozen  applications  to  one 
place.  I  shall  manage  somehow  to  see  service. 
Active  service  for  the  army  now  collected  here  is 
hardly  likely  just  yet,  unless  we  are  attacked, 
which  we  do  not  expect.  Perhaps  there  will  be 
before  long  an  attack  on  Harper's  Ferry.  Great 
military  movements  southward  will  not  take  place 
before  fall,  so  the  chiefs  say.    For  we  are  regiments, 


i 


M 


!    » 


288 


FORTRESS   MONROE. 


[1861 


and  not  an  army  as  yet,  and  we  must  move  in  an 
impregnable  body,  to  reclaim  the  country." 

The  following,  Winthrop's  Good-Bye  to  the  Seventh 
Regiment,  is  taken  from  "  Washington  as  a  Camp." 

"  Here  I  must  cut  short  my  story.  So  Good-bye 
to  the  Seventh,  and  thanks  for  the  fascinating 
month  I  have  passed  in  their  society.  In  this 
pause  of  the  war,  our  camp-life  has  been  to  me  as 
brilliant  as  a  permanent  picnic. 

"Good-bye  to  Company  I,  and  all  the  fine  fellows, 
rough  and  smooth,  cool  old  hands,  and  recruits  ver- 
dant but  ardent !  Good-bye  to  our  Lieutenants,  to 
whom  I  owe  much  kindness !  Good-bye,  the  Or- 
derly, so  peremptory  on  parade,  so  indulgent  off! 
Good-bye,  everybody !     And  so,  in  haste,  1  close." 


;  I 


% 


%i-A 


i 


The  few  remaining  "  last  letters,"  full  of  life  and  ac- 
tivity, come  from  Fortress  Monroe  and  cover  a  period 
of  less  than  two  weeks  more. 

"Fortress  Monroe,  May  Slst,  1861. 

"Dear  L., — Thanks  for  your  kind  letter  and  the 
hamper.  I  saw  Gen.  Butler  at  Washington.  He 
invited  me  here  when  the  Seventh  should  return, 
and  here  am  I,  acting  as  his  Military  Sec'y  pro  tern. 
He  will  find  me  something  to  do.  He  is  a  charac- 
ter, and  really  was  the  man  who  saved  Washington 
by  devising  the  march  to  Annapolis — a  place  which 
nobody  had  ever  heard  of. 


il^T.  32] 


LAST  LETTERS. 


289 


^  I 


"  By  Liberty !  bat  it  is  worth  something  to  be 
liere  at  this  moment,  in  the  center  of  tlie  center ! 
Here  we  scheme  the  schemes !  Here  we  take  the 
secession  flags,  the  arms,  the  prisoners !  Mere  we 
liberate  the  slaves — virtually.  I  write  at  ton  i».  »r. 
We  have  just  had  a  long  examination  of  a  pom- 
pous Vn-ginian,  secessionist  and  slave  owner,  who 
came  under  safe  conduct  to  demand  back  his  twenty 
niggers  who  had  run  over  to  us.  Half  of  his  slaves 
he  had  smuggled  over  to  Alabama  for  sale  a  week 
ago.  But  he  was  not  lively  enougli  with  the  sec;- 
ond  score.  He  said,  with  a  curious  mock  pathos 
— 'One  boy,  sir,  staid  behind,  sir,  and  I  said  to  him, 
John,  they're  all  gone,  John,  and  you  can  go  if  you 
like;  I  can't  hold  you.  No,  master,  says  John,  I'll 
stay  by  you,  master,  till  I  die!  But,  sir,  in  the 
morning  John  was  gone,  and  he'd  taken  my  best 
horse  with  him  !  Now,  Colonel,'  said  the  old  chap, 
half  pleading  and  half  demanding,  'I'm  an  invalid, 
and  you  have  got  two  of  my  boys,  young  boys,  sir, 
not  over  twelve — no  use  to  you  except  perhaps  to 
black  a  gentleman's  boots.  I  would  like  them 
very  much,  sir,  if  you  would  spare  them.  In  fact, 
Colonel,  sir,  I  ought  to  have  my  property  back.' 

"  It  would  have  done  Gay's  heart  good  to  have 
heard  what  Gen.  Butler  said,  when  this  customer 
was  dismissed.  Then  we  had  an  earnest,  simple 
fellow,  black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  with  whites 
of  eyes  like  holes  in  his  head,  and  sunshine  seen 
through;  who  had  run  away  from  the  batteries  at 
Yorktown,  and  came  to  tell  what  they  were  doing 


if 


290 


LAST  LETTERS. 


[1861 


1  III  \ 


there.  It  is  prime,  and  growing  primer  all  the 
time.  I  wish  I  conld  write  more,  bnt  I  am  at 
hard  work  most  of  the  day.  In  the  afternoon  I 
ride  ahont,  and  the  sentries  present  arms,  though 
I  am  still  in  my  uniform  of  a  private.  I  left  Billy 
in  Washington.  It  broke  my  heart  to  leave  the 
boy,  bnt  I  shall  work  with  him  again.  Dearest 
love  to  all  in  the  house  and  region, 

"Yours, 

"T.  W." 


!  ! 


y  \ 
ill  • 


Wr. 


m 

I  ?  ■!  ■ 


% 


.  ■■■'■  1 
.11: 


"  Headquarters  Dept.  of  Viroinia, 
"Fortress  Monroe,  June  1st,  1861. 

"  My  Dear  Mother, — Somehow  I  find  myself 
here  on  Gen.  Butler's  staff,  acting  military  sec- 
retary at  present,  and  here  I  shall  stay,  if  the 
business  remains  as  intensely  interesting  as  now. 
Billy  also  writes  me  from  Washington  that  i  am 
to  be  appointed  First  Lieutenant  in  the  Army. 
My  rank  as  Secretary  is,  I  suppose.  Captain  or 
perhaps  Major,  so  you  see  I  am  in  the  line  of  pro- 
motion. Please  write  to  rae  here,  dear  mother, 
at  once.  I  cannot  take  time  to  write,  for  things 
thicken  all  the  while.  We  shall  not  have  fight- 
ing, but  the  preparations  are  busy.  All  the  man- 
uscripts in  the  drawer  and  the  trunk  please  pre- 
serve with  care,  as  they  must  make  my  fortune 
when  1  am  a  half-pay  officer,  with  no  arms  or  legs. 
Lively  work  presently.  Address  me  for  the  present 
simply  T.  W.,  Care  Maj.-Gen.  Butler,  Fortress  Mon 
roe,  Virginia." 


JEt.  32] 


LAST  LETTERS. 


201 


"Fortress  Mntirne,  June  9th,  18C1. 

"Mv    Drau    MoTiiFin,— Kverv   clav   hriiips    IVcsli 
activity    and    fresh    responsibility.      Yon     wonld 
smile   to   see   yonr   mild    son    commanding    regi- 
ments, rowing  officers,  careering  abont  the  camp 
and  the  limited  range  of  onr  debatable  conntry 
on   dragoon   horses,   carrying   steamers   and    tngs 
over   seas,   and  in   short  doing  the  aide-de-camp 
broadly.     It   is   grand,   and   stirs    me    np   to   my 
fullest.     I   seize  a  moment  to  stuibble  a  line   be- 
fore a  movement,  the  most   important   thus   far, 
of  our  campaign.     We  march  to-night  in  two  de- 
tachments, to  endeavor  to   surround  and  capture 
a  detachment  of  the  Secession  Army,  estimated  at 
from  three  or  four  hundred  to  twenty-five  hundred. 
If  we  find  them  where  we  expect,  we  shall  bag 
some.     If  we  meet  them  on  the  wa;,  we  shall  have 
a  sharp  scrimmage,  or  half  a  battle.     If  I  come 
back  safe,  I  will  send  you  my  notes  of  the  Plan 
of  Attack,  part  made  up  from  the  General's  notes, 
part  from  my  own  fancies.     We  march  at  midnight 
to  attack,  eight  miles  hence,  at  dawn.     We  hope 
to  bring  in  field-pieces,  prisoners,  horses,  and  burn 
a  church  or  so.     If  I  don't  come  back,  dear  mother, 
dear  love  to  everybody.    General  Butler  has  treated 
me  with  great  kindness  and  confidence  and  so  have 
all  the  officers. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"Theo.  Winthrop."  * 


292 


GREAT   BETHEL. 


[1861 


6'o/)//,   hi   H''inf/n'ops  Hrni^hrrifimj,  of  one  of  Gen. 

Butlers   Onlers. 

"  Major  Wiiithrop,  acting  on  my  staiF,  will  report 
on  board  tho  Steamer  Ydnbr,  and  communicate  the 
detailH  of  my  orderH  for  o|)eratit)nH  on  Back  river 
to  the  ofKcer  in  command.  The  commander  of  the 
Yanb'c  will  proceed  up  Back  river  to  the  officer  in 
command  of  the  troops  there,  under  Major  Win- 
throp's  directions;  he  being  fully  informed  of  the 
movement  intended. 

"  Ben.  F.  Butler, 

'' MdJ.-Uen.  Commaiiding." 

The  plan  of  this  reconnoissance  under  Gen.  Butler 
may  have  boon  good,  but  it  was  executed  hastily  and 
without  experience.  Winthrop  was  not  at  all  obliged, 
as  secretary  or  staff  officer,  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
it,  but  his  ardent  spirit  could  not  stay  behind,  and  he 
{^•ot  leave  to  accompany  the  expedition  as  a  volunteer. 
In  the  darkness,  two  conipanies  of  our  troops  fired 
upon  each  othtu-  and  alarmed  the  enemy.  Finding  a 
battery  and  detachment  of  the  enemy  at  Great  Bethel 
the  party  were  about  to  l)e  driven  back  "  when  Major 
Winthrop,"  as  said  by  Ccn  Magruder,  "was  distinctly 
seen  for  some  time,  leading  a  body  of  men  to  the 
charge,  and  had  mounted  a  log,  and  was  waving  his 
sword  and  shouting  to  his  men  to  *Come  on,'  when  a 
North  Carolina  drummer  boy  borrowed  a  gun,  leaped 
Oil  to  the  battery,  and  shot  him  deliberately  in  the 
breast.  He  fell  nearer  to  the  enemy's  works  than  any 
other  man  went  during  the  fight.*    The  battery  was 

*  His  body  was  left  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 


Mt.  32] 


GREAT  BETHEL. 


293 


constructed  and  Korved  l)y  Maj.  U.indolph,  and  the 
battle  was  fonj^dit  principally  by  North  Carolina  troops" 
(Gen.  Mafjruder,  in  command  at  Yorktown). 

PuEss  Accounts. 

N.  Y.  Evi'iiing  Post.  "Major  Winthrop  was  shot 
by  ti  LoniKiana  liileman,  while  heading  a  vig-orouH 
charge.  He  fell  mortally  wounded  in  the  jirms  of 
a  Vermont  volunteer." 

N.  Y.  Tribune,  June  Kith,  18G1.  "  \  made  a  recon- 
noisaance  with  Maj.  Winthrop  about  twelve  o'clock 
in  the  day,  and  can  testify  to  his  In'avery  and  dar- 
ing, lie  was  very  much  exhausted,  having  wanted 
for  sleep,  food,  and  water;  and  the  day  had  turned 
out  very  hot.  We  stuck  our  heads  out  of  some  un- 
derbrush, and  instantly  there  was  a  shower  of  balls 
rained  upon  us,  which  compelled  us  to  withdraw 
a  few  paces.  Major  Winthrop  laid  himself  behind 
a  tree,  saying,  if  he  could  only  sleep  for  five  min- 
utes he  would  be  all  right.  He  remarked  as  he 
did  this,  that  he  was  going  to  see  the  inside  of  that 
intrenchment  before  he  went  back  to  the  fortress — 
his  manner  being  that  of  cool,  ordinary  conversa- 
tion. He  continued  self-possessed  and  cool  through- 
out the  whole  engagement  up  to  the  time  when  he  re- 
ceived his  death  wound,  which  happened  by  the  side 
of  Lieut.  Herringen,  Company  E.,  who  remained 
with  him  and  cared  for  him  till  life  had  fled." 

N.  Y.  Tribune,  Jmie  17th.  "The  gallantry  of 
Maj.  Winthrop  is  the  subject  of  universal  admira- 
tion   both  with  the  federal  and  the  rebel  forces. 


294 


GREAT  BETHEL. 


[1861 


!!!'•; 


The  rebel  riflemen  in  the  pits  before  Big  Bethel 
state  that  they  several  times  took  deliberate  aim 
at  him,  as  he  was  all  the  time  conspicuous  at  the 
head  of  the  advancing  federal  troops,  loudly  cheer- 
ing them  on  to  the  assault. 

"  Lieut.  Greble,  a  brave  officer  of  the  Regular 
Army,  educated  at  West  Point,  was  also  killed  in 
the  same  engagement,  with  several  other  soldiers." 

The  Fortress  Monroe  correspondent  of  the  Boston 
Journal  says  of  iMajor  VVinthrop: — "On  going  out 
upon  a  somewhat  hazardous  expedition  a  few  days 
since,  he  laughingly  handed  me  his  keys  and  his 
pocket-valuables,  telling  me  to  take  care  of  them 
if  he  did  not  return.  From  that  enterprise  he  re- 
turned in  safety,  and  immediately  entered  with 
singular  zeal  into  the  projected  expedition  to  the 
l^ethel.  This  scheme  was  a  favorite  of  his;  in  pre- 
paring for  it  he  devoted  his  whole  energy  on 
Saturday  and  Sunday,  first  giving  me  more  ela- 
borate instructions  for  the  disposition  of  his  affairs, 
in  case  he  should  fall,  than  before,  and  in  a  manner 
which  impressed  me  with  the  idea  that  he  believed 
he  should  not  return.  He  last  used  his  pen  to  write 
to  his  mother,  but  before  the  letter  was  mailed  he 
was  no  more.  He  was  slain  very  nearly  at  the 
time,  nay  possibly  after  the  time,  when  the  order 
for  retreat  was  given,  and  while  fighting  with  des- 
perate energy,  almost  under  the  guns  of  the  Rebel 
batteiy  with  a  Sharp's  rifle  which  he  carried  with 
him.     No  truer,  braver  man  ever  fell  on  the  field 


i  vi 


Ml.  32] 


GREAT  BETHEL, 


295 


of  bcattle."  This  correspondent  gives  on  another 
day  the  notes  of  Winthrop  from  which  he  says  the 
plan  of  the  movement  was  formed.  He  then  says : — 
"this  was  the  hist  instruction— that  the  battery  at 
Big  Bethel  was  not  to  be  attacked  unless  success 
was  certain — as  I  happen  to  know,  having  been 
present  at  the  time,  given  by  General  Butler  to 
Major  Winthrop.  'Be  as  brave  as  you  please,' 
said  the  General,  '  but  run  no  risks.' 

'"  "Be  bold,  be  bold— bat  not  too  bold," 

'"shall  be  our  motto,'  responded  Winthrop,  and 
upon  instructions  of  which  the  foregoing  are  tlie 
substance,  the  two  expeditions  started.  The  object 
of  a  surprise  was  entirely  defeated  by  Colonel  Ben- 
dix's  blunder,  yet  in  defiance  of  all  the  rules  of  war 
they  kept  on:  they  destroyed  the  Little  Bethel,  and 
then,  it  seems  to  me,  somebody,  entirely  on  his  own 
responsibility,  decided  to  proceed  to  attack  Big 
Bethel     But  even  this  would  appear  to  be  scarcely 

improper 

I  have  yet  to  meet  an  intelligent  and  competent 
officer  who  does  not  believe  that  the  place  might 
have  easily  been  taken.  This  might  have  been 
accomplished  first,  by  turning  it  upon  our  right, 
as  Mr.  Winthrop  was  attempting  to  do  when  he 
fell.  That  attempt  might  have  succeeded.  To  use 
tiie  language  of  Colonel  Levy  of  Louisiana  as  nearly 
as  I  remember  it,  '  Had  you  had  a  hundred  men  as 
brave  as  Winthrop,  and  one  to  lead  when  he 
fell,  I  should  be  in  Fortress  Monroe  a  prisoner  of 
war  to-night.'     Second,   it   might   have   been   aj- 


296 


GREAT   BETHEL. 


[18G1 


\ 


l(| 


compliehed  still  more  easily  upon  the  left.  Captain 
Haggerty  had  discovered  this,  liad  suggested  it  to 
General  Pierce,  had  after  some  difficulty  secured 
General  Tovvnshend's  co-operation,  when  this  plan 
was  defeated  by  the  gross  blunder  of  whoever  was 
in  command  of  Townshend's  left — a  Captain,  I  be- 
lieve, in  allowing  three  companies  to  become  de- 
tached from  the  main  body  by  a  thicket.  From 
this  circumstance,  Townshend  was  led  to  believe, 
as  he  saw  the  bayonets  of  his  own  men  glistening 
through  the  foliage,  that  he  was  outflanked.  He 
retreated  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  battle." 


H 


m\ 


Whether  this  account  of  the  battle  by  a  civilian  is 
correct  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  somebody  blundered, 
if  not  almost  eveiybody,  and  Winthrop  alone  could 
not  have  retrieved  the  daj'',  even  if  he  had  lived.  Still, 
many  thought  it  possible.  The  accounts  of  the  battle 
by  the  Secessionists,  though  they  vaiy  in  many  respects 
from  ours,  agree  with  them  in  giving  him  the  honors 
of  the  day.  In  an  article  in  the  Richmond  Be^atch 
for  June  25th,  1861,  which  describes  the  battle  mi- 
nutely, there  is  this  remark — "  as  far  as  my  observation 
extended,  he  (Winthrop)  was  the  only  one  of  the  ene- 
my who  exhibited  even  an  approximation  to  courage 
during  the  whole  day."  This  of  course  is  absurd,  but 
it  is  evident  that  the  moment  of  his  fall  was  a  critical 
one,  and  that  a  total  rout  immediately  followed  it. 

His  body  was  left  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  and  was 
buried  by  them  the  day  after  the  battle.  So  great  was 
the  eagerness  of  the  people  to  obtain  trophies  of  their 
iirst  victory,  that  his  watch,  sword  and  pistol  had  been 


/Ex.  32] 


LETTERS. 


2117 


already  distributed  through  the  country,  when,  with 
a  flag  of  truce,  a  request  was  made  for  his  personal 
property.  The  watch,  which  had  been  sent  to  North 
Carolina,  to  the  mother  of  a  soldier,  was  returned  in 
the  course  of  a  month,  by  Colonel  Hill,  of  the  Confed- 
erate Army,  to  General  Butler,  who  sent  it  at  once  to 
the  family  of  Major  Winthrop.  The  watch  was  re- 
turned to  Colonel  Hill  by  Mr.  Archibald  McLean,  who 
writes  to  him  thus,  "  I  trouble  you  with  tliis  long  ex- 
planation of  my  agency  in  bringing  the  watch  away, 
lest  it  might  be  suj^posed  I  was  indifferent  as  to  the 
value,  innocent  (perhaps)  members  of  the  deceased's 
family  might  place  upon  a  relict  of  one,  who  though 
an  enemy  of  ours,  was  held  dear  by  them." 

The  following  letters  were  sent  by  General  Butler, 
who  also  ^vrote  a  long  and  elaborate  letter  of  condo- 
lence, to  Mrs.  Winthrop. 


Letter  to  Mrs.  Francis  B.   Winthrop,  Staten  Island. 

"  HeADQUAETKRS  DePT.    of  VinCJINIA,   ETC.,  1 

"Fortress  Monroe,  July  6th,  1861.  J 

"  My  dear  Madam,— I  send  you  with  this  the  watch 
of  your  son,  Major  Wmthrop,  with  copies  of  letters, 
showing  how  it  came  into  my  hands,  and  a  letter  of 
a  Mr.  McLean  to  Col.  Hill  of  North  Carolina  account- 
ing for  the  delay  in  returning  it.  Col.  HiU's  letter, 
improper  as  it  is  in  its  tone,  is  another  proof  of  the 
admiration  and  respect  yoiu*  son's  gallantry  won  even 
from  his  enemies, 

"  With  warmest  good  wishes,  I  remain, 

"Your  obedient  Servant, 

"Benj.  F.   Butler." 


298 


LETTERS. 


[18G1 


"Headquarters  Yorktown, 
"Jttiy  5th,  1861 


:l 


"Gen'l  B.  F.  Butler. 

*^Gomm'ing  Fort  Monroe  and  Suburbs. 

"  Sir, — I  have  the  honor  herewith  to  send  the  watch 
of  young  Winthrop,  who  fell  while  gallantly  leading  a 
party  in  the  vain  attempt  to  subjugate  a  free  people. 
The  accompanying  letter  will  explain  to  you  the  cause 
of  the  delay  in  the  return  of  the  watch. 

"  ResjDectfully, 

"D.  H.  Hill, 
'^Commanding  Post." 


"  Headqcarters  Deft,  of  YntanstiA, 
"Fortress  Monroe,  July  5th,  1861 


:! 


Hi: 


"Col.  D.  H.  Hill. 

'^  Commanding  Post  at  Yorktown. 

"  Sir, — I  have  the  honor  to  own  receipt  of  the  watch 
of  Major  Winthrop,  who  lost  his  life  in  the  service  of 
his  country,  against  the  rebels  to  her  government. 
The  explanations  of  the  delay  are  quite  satisfactory. 
The  trinket  will  be  forwarded  to  his  mother,  with  the 
letter  accompanying  it.  She  will  take  a  very  different 
view  of  her  son's  duties  and  services  from  that  fore- 
shadowed by  your  letter.  I  must  beg  your  attention, 
as  I  did  that  of  your  predecessor  at  Yorktown,  to  the 
fact,  that  my  official  title  is,  'Major-General  Com- 
manding the  Department  of  Virginia.' 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  very  respectfully, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"Benj.    F.   Butler." 

From  the  New  York  Tribune. 

"On  Monday  morning,  June  17th,  1861,  William 
Winthrop,  and  Theodore  Weston  his  brother-in- 


ifi. 


Mt.  32] 


///S  BURIAL. 


21)9 


law,  accompanied  by  Lieut.  Butler,  the  aid  of 
Geueral  Butler,  proceeded  with  a  flag  of  truce  to 
Great  Bethel.  Word  having  been  transmitted  to 
the  intrenchments,  officially,  of  their  errand.  Col. 
Magruder  appeared  with  his  staff,  and  formally 
received  the  party.  The  body  was  then  escorted 
to  a  house,  by  two  companies  of  Southern  troops. 
Col.  Magruder  tendered  the  party  an  escort  as  lar 
as  our  lines,  but  this  was  declined.  Lieut.  Butler 
and  Mr.  Winthrop  were  received  with  the  utmost 
courtesy  by  the  secession  officers,  and  every  facil- 
ity was  given  them.  Tliey  were  received  with 
military  honors  on  returning  to  Fortress  Monroe, 
and  arrived  in  New  York  with  a  military  escort  on 
June  19th.  On  Friday  there  was  a  military  funeral, 
the  Seventh  Regiment  acting  as  a  guard  of  honor." 


He  wore  at  the  time  of  his  death,  and  was  buried 
in,  the  gray  uniform  of  the  Seventh  Regiment  of  New 
York.  His  body  was  also  received  at  New  Haven  with 
military  honors  and  followed  to  the  grave  by  the  stu- 
dents of  Yale,  and  crowds  of  his  fellow  citizens.  The 
whole  town  was  deeply  and  sincerely  moved.  He  was 
laid  in  the  family  burial  plot  in  the  New  Haven  Ceme- 
tery. An  address  was  delivered  by  Prof  Porter  of  Yale 
College  (now  President),  and  the  peaceful  and  scholarly 
old  town  put  on  mourning  for  her  son,  and  gave  him 
all  the  honor  she  could  bestow.  He  had  once  said  to 
his  mother,—  "  When  I  die,  put  a  granite  cross  over 
my  grave."  This  wish  was  held  sacred,  and  in  due 
time  a  very  beautiful  one,  designed  by  Upjohn,  was 
placed  upon  the  spot,  sculptured  with  the  endless  cord, 


f. 


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[18G1 


the  emblem  of  eternity,  but  having  no  inscription  save 
his  name  and  the  date  and  place  of  his  death. 

He  was  left  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  old  elms  he 
loved  so  well,  and  under  the  tender  care  of  his  Alma 
Mater.  His  age  was  thirty-two  years  and  nine  months 
when  he  felL 

Was  it  a  fitting  end  ?  Was  it  just  that  all  this  gayety 
and  energ3%  this  genius  and  hope,  should  have  been 
quenched  by  a  chance  shot,  that  the  heart  beating  with 
life,  youth  and  patriotism  should  be  stilled  so  soon, 
that  his  military  and  literary  fame  should  have  been 
ended  when  just  begun  V  He  might  have  been  a  leader, 
he  might  have  been  the  historian  or  the  novelist 
of  those  stirring  days.  So  full  of  vitality,  that  when 
the  telegram  came — 3Iisdng — it  seemed  incredible ;  it 
seemed  impossible,  in  those  living,  glowing  June  days. 
Some  felt  even  that  he  threw  away  his  life,  so  intoler- 
able did  it  seem  that  aU  should  be  over  in  one  brief 
moment.  Was  it  a  fitting  end  ?  Ah !  had  he  heard 
his  country's  call  and  not  obeyed  if,  where  was  he  ? 
Could  he  have  done  otherwise?  It  was  not  done, 
lightly;  his  love  for  his  country  was  a  passion,  his 
words  were  no  empty  phrases,  he  took  his  life  in  his 
hand  for  her  sake,  he  proved  his  sincerity.  And  the 
eftect  of  his  death  was  worthy  of  the  sacrifice.  He  was 
idealized,  worshiped  by  the  young  men  of  that  day, 
he  was  the  representative  man  of  the  hour.  He  showed, 
as  he  says  in  "  John  Brent,"  "  how  easy  it  is  for  noble 
souls  to  be  noble,"  and  his  example  to  our  young 
men  was  worth  even  such  a  life  as  his,  and  such  as 
the  noble  lives  that  followed  after.  "  We  rather  seem 
the  dead;  that  staid  behind !  " 


m 


[1861 


^T.  32] 


77/A-    LOSS. 


301 


"  What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave  ? 
How  weigh  the  gilt  that  Lyon  gave  ? 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

••Then  Freedom  sternly  said,  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun 
Where  human  rights  are  staked  and  won." 

—{WhiUkr). 

When  aU  the  hopes  of  the  lovely  Hfe  of  Robert 
Shaw  were  "buried  with  his  niggers,"  were  not  the 
fair  white  daisies  that  sprung  from  his  grave,  symbols 
that  his  pure  life  and  holy  death  would  bring  forth 
the  flower,  last  to  blossom,  of  freedom  for  that  race 
for  whom  he  died !     Winthrop's  was  the  first,  but  how 
far  from  the  last  precious  Hfe  *  that  our  Mother  Land 
was  called  to  sacrifice!     And  when  we  think  of  the 
love  that  was  felt  for  her,  the  reality  of  the  patriotism 
that  burned  in  so  many  hearts,  the  clasping  of  hands 
and  warming  of  young  souls,  one  would  almost  wish 
—not  for  those  days  to  return,  ah  no !  but  that  some- 
thing might  again  kindle  a  spark  of  that  passion  in 
the  cold  hearts  of  the  men  of  to-day  !     Perhaps  it  only 
slumbers,    and   our  Mother's    children  would    again 
spring  to  their  feet  if  a  foe  from  without  or  within 
should  Hft  its  head  to  endanger  her  life  or  her  peace. 
May  it  be  so.     And  when  slie  calls  again  the  Hero  soul, 
and  says,  "Here  is  your  opportunity;  prove  your  de- 
votion to  the  truth  you  have  professed !     While  others 
skulk  and  hide,  you  must  forget  self,  and  toil,  and  die, 
if  you  are  caUed  to  do  it.     Life  may  be  given  in  many 

*  '^he  last  officer  who  fell  in  the  Civil  War  was  Brigadier-Gen'l 
Frederic  Winthrop,  own  cousin  of  Theodore  Winthrop,  who  was 
killed  in  the  battle  of  Seven  Pines,  before  Richn^ond,  and  was 
a  brave  and  valuable  General. 


t 

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302 


r^^  GA/j\r. 


[1861 


ways,  but  a  man  can  give  after  all,  no  more,  no  less, 
than  his  life.  Prove  then  your  truth !  Give  me  your 
life ! "  will  there  not  be  many  a  brave  heart  to  reply, 
"  Be  it  unto  me  even  as  Thou  wilt  ?  " 

And  truly  it  made  amends  for  all,  and  shall  be  so 
world  without  end,  to  feel,  as  our  people  felt  then, 
that  our  Country  was  something  real,  something  worth 
living  for,  worth  dying  for,  to  have  those  thoughts 
stirring  in  every  heart  to  which  Lowell  has  given  ex- 
pression in  the  close  of  his  noble  Commemoration  Ode. 

«•  Oh  Beautiful !  my  country !  ours  once  more  ! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore. 

And  letting  thy  set  lips 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  echpse 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare. 

**  What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  nations  bright  beyond  compare  ? 

What  were  our  Uves  without  thee  ? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee  ? 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee  ! 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee  ! 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare  1  '* 


THE  END. 


iisrr>  E  X. 


wm 


i 


L 


INDEX. 


A. 

Acapulco,  Bay  and  town  of,  130. 

Achilles,  258. 

Acropolis  of  Athens,  51-52. 

Adams,  Mt.,  7. 

Adirondacks,  260. 

Admetus,  2G. 

Alcestis,  26. 

Alabama,  289. 

Alma  Mater,  300. 

Alps   compared  with   Oregon 

Mts.,  154. 
Alston,  Washington,  Picture  of 
St.  Peter  and  the  Angel,  6. 
Alvoord,  Major,  U.  S.  A.,  145- 

146. 
America  disgraced,  197. 
Ames,  Fisher,  28. 
Amsterdam,  its  resemblance  to 

New  York,  63. 
Andes,  Heart  of  the,  260. 
Angelo,  Michael,  231. 
Annapolis,  288. 
Argos,  54, 
Argolis,  51, 
Armstrong,  in  "John  Brent," 

275-276. 
Army,  U.  S.  A.,  Headquarters, 

in  Oregon,  142. 
Arnold,  Dr.,  18. 
Arthur's  Seat,  at  Edinboro',  7. 
Aspinwall,  town  of,  127, 93-12i. 
Aspiuwall,  William  H.,  43,  46, 
48,  72,  73,  75,  80,  86, 172. 
Astoria,  Oregon,  138. 
Athens,  50;  view  of,  54;  plain  of, 

51;  Acropolis,  51. 
Atlantic  Monthly,  274,  278, 285. 
Atlantis,  161. 
Avignon,  46. 


B. 

Back  Kiver,  292. 

Bannack  Indians,  162. 

Bar  Harbor,  192. 

Barracks,  U.  S.  Army,  145. 

Bath  Donkeys,  39. 

Beachy  Head,  32. 

Bellington  Bay,  188. 

Bendix,  Colonel,  295. 

Benecia,  135. 

Bergamo,  58. 

Berkelcian   Scholarship,    Yale 
College,  20. 

Big  Bethel,  295. 

Billup,  Jane,  274. 

Blue  Mts.,  162. 

Boca  Chica,  175. 

Bogota,  119. 

Boisde,  Fort,  162. 

Bonneville,  Colonel,  142-3. 

Bonticue,  Mrs.,  10  11. 

Boston,  155. 

Boston  Journal,  Correspondent 
of,  on  Winthrop,  294. 

Both,  J.,  painter,  6. 
Boulevards,  Paris,  44. 
Brent,  Captain,  143,  144,  161. 
Brescia,  58, 
Bridger,  Fort,  161. 

"  Brightly 's  Orphan,"  274,  277. 
Brothertoft  Manor,  277. 
Bulwer's  "Last  of  the  Barons," 

14. 
Bungay,  George,  278, 
Burns,  Robert,  14. 
Burnt  River  Mts.,  162. 
Butler,    Benjamin  P.,    Major 
Gen'l.,  286,  288,  289,  290, 
letters  of,  297,  298.    Order 
of,  292. 


30G 


INDEX. 


IJutlor,  Bishop,  Works,  17. 
Butler,    Liout.,   Aid  of  Qen'l 
Butler,  299. 

0. 

Caledonia  Bay,  178;  River,  181. 
California,   22,    25,    124,    130, 

140,  143;  the  steamer,  113; 

mines,  150. 
Cameron,  Simon,  Seo'y  of  War, 

287. 
Campanile  di  San  Marco,  5G. 
"Canoe  and  Saddle,"  161,  102, 

281. 
Canoe  Voyage,  158. 
Carbonari,  12. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  25,  26. 
Carnival  in  Panama,  106. 
Cartagena.  174,  175,  179,  189. 
Cascade  Mts.,  144,  150,  161. 
Cascades  of  the  Columbia  Riv- 
er, 143,  145. 
Cavour,  13,  197. 
"Cecil  jOreeme,"  274,  277,  281. 
Chagres  River,  94,  123;  town 

of,  95. 
Chamounix,  61,  63, 
Chaqunqne,  186. 
Charing  Cross  to  the  Bunk,  34. 
Chatsworth,  38. 
ChehallisMt.,  154. 
Cheronaaa,  55. 

Chico  and  Atrato  Mines,  116. 
Chimdre,  French  Steamer,  184. 
Chinook  Jargon,  155-161. 
Church,  Frederic  E.,  91,  260, 

283. 
Cithoeron,  55. 
Civil  War,  1,  279,  280. 
Civita  Vecchia,  48. 
Class  of  1848,  Yale  College,  15. 
Claude  Lorraine  Sunsets,  57. 
Clitheroe,  Ellen,  276. 
Coal  Mines  of  Bellington  Bay, 

158. 
Coire,  59. 
Coleridge,  18. 

Coleville,  Fort  and  Rapids,  148. 
College  Themes,  15. 
CoUyer,  Robert,  83. 


Colorado  Springs,  282. 
Colton,  Rev.  Henry,  20. 
Columbia  River,  75,  137,  138, 

140,  142;  Cascades  of  the, 

143,  145;  Flood  of  the,  147. 
Columbia,  Upper,  101. 
Columbia,  the  Steamer,  137. 
Commemoration  Ode,  302. 
Commencement  Oration,  16. 
Confederate  Army,  297. 
Confirmation,  20. 
Constantinople,  55. 
Cordillera,  179,  187. 
Corinth,  54. 

Cormayeur,  village  of,  60. 
Cowlitz,  town  and  River,  139, 

155. 
Cramont,  the,  60. 
Crimean  War,  197. 
Critique  by  Prof.  Nichol,  278. 

279. 
Cru9e8  Road,  122. 
Curtis,    George  William,  278, 

283,  286. 
Cyane,  Sloop  of  War,  173,  176, 

188,  189. 

D. 

Dalles  of  the  Columbia,  143, 

145,  146,  148,  160. 
Dangerous  Climb,  A,  62. 
Daphne,  pass  and  monastery 

of,  54. 
Darion  Expedition,  172. 
Dayton,  Seward's  letters  to,  287. 
Death  of  Winthrop's  Father, 

19. 
Densdeth,  274. 
Diabolo  Mountain,  136. 
Diomed,  50. 

Disappointment  in  Love,  205. 
Dismissed  fi'om  Yale  College, 

19. 
Donation  Law  of  Oregon,  151. 
Don  Pulaiio,  273,  281. 
Don  Quixote,  63. 
Dosoris,  Long  Island,  3. 
Dwight,  Elizabeth  Woolsey,  3. 
Dwight,  Theodore,  6. 
Dwight,  Timothy,  3. 


INDEX. 


au' 


E 
East  Rock,  7,  ei. 
Edict  of  Nantes,  4. 
Edinboro',  35. 
EdwardH,  Jomvthan,  5,  19. 
"Edwin  Brothertolt,"  274,  277. 
Ef^ina,  51. 
ElenHis,  51. 

Emigration  of  1843,  153. 
Englanil,  11)7,  280. 
English  Engineers,  186. 
English  Fleet,   51;  Inns,   38; 

Parks,  39. 
Espiegle,  H.  M.  Brig,  184,  189. 
Etna,  50. 
Eub(ea,  53. 

Euston  Square,  R.  R.  Sta.,  34. 
Exhibition,  Great,  of  1851,  81. 

F. 

Far  West,  5. 

Field  Artillery,  281 

Fields,  James  T.,  278. 

Fingal's  Cave,  36. 

Fisheries,  Salmon,  149. 

Fiske,  Oliver,  287. 

Florence,  57. 

Foster,  Dwight,  27,  77. 

Foster,  Mr.,  27. 

Fords,  156. 

Forest  Journey,  128. 

Fort  Hall,  143. 

Fort  Point,  136. 

Fort  Wadsworth,  view  from,  78. 

Fountain's  Abbey,  37. 

Fortress  Monroe,  286,  288,  290, 
295,  297. 

Fragments,  167,  168,  169. 

France,  197. 

Frankfort,  63. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  3. 

Fremont  Presidential  Cam- 
paign, 260. 

French  language,  study  of,  64, 
97. 

French  Revolutions,  25. 

G. 
Garibaldi,  13. 
Gay,  Sidney  Howard,  283,  286. 


Genealogy,  4. 

Geneva,  63;  journey  to,  81,  82 

Genoa,  48. 

Gloncoe,  pass  of,  37. 

Gloucester  ('athedral,  39. 

Golden  Gate,  131. 

Goldsmith's  "History  of  Eng- 

land,"  11.  ^ 

Gold  Trains.  100,  110. 
Grande  Ronde  Valley  of,  162. 
Great  Bethel,  2,  292,  299. 
Greble,  Lieutenant,  U.  8.  A.. 

294. 
Greece,  travels  in,  51  55;  Isle 

of,  51 ;  wild  flowers  of,  53. 
Grote's  "Hist,  of  Greece,"  26. 
Gulf  of  Spezia,  58. 

H. 

Haddon  Hall,  38. 
Haggerty,  Captain,  296. 
Hamilton,  Sir  William,  35. 
Hand   Car,   journey  on,   128, 

127. 
Harper's  Ferry,  287. 
Hatteras  Hurricane,  174. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  6,  281, 

274. 
Hayti,  174. 

Head  of  Puget  Sound,  156. 
Health,  Failure  of,  16. 
Heeren's  "Asia,"  23. 
Helicon,  55. 
Hemlocks,  the,  282. 
Herringen,     Lieut.   Company 

E        QQQ 

Hill,  Colonel  D.  H.,  297. 
Hitchcock,  General,  103,  142. 
Hitchcock,    Henry,    27,    163, 

264. 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  6. 
Holcomb,  Mr.,  183,  184,  188, 

189. 
Hollins,  Captain,  173, 174,  179, 

188   189 
Hood,  Mt.,  139,  147,  161,  152. 
Hill,  Colonel,  Letter  of,  298. 
Hudson's  Bay  Co.,  142,   154, 

156. 
Hudson  River,  24,  275,  277. 


I 


308 


WD  EX. 


Huguenots,  4. 

Humboldt,  Town  of,  137. 

Uuut,  Family  in  Paris,  46 ;  Rich- 
ard, 43, 44, 45,  46;  William, 
43,  45. 

Hyde  Park,  33. 

Hyraettus,  52. 

I. 

Ikapooso  Mountain,  153. 

Illihisas,  285. 

Indian  IBattle  ground,  138;  Fish- 
eries, 158;  Folk  Lore,  161; 
Lodges,  155;  Murder,  180; 
Trail,  184. 

Indians,  of  the  Columbia,  149; 
of  the  Isthmus,  179. 

Inland  Journey,  114;  115,  1J6, 
117. 

Inoosquiimish  Language,  157. 

Irrepressible  Conflict,  285. 

Italy's  Dav/n,  197. 

Italian  Journey,  55-58;  Skies, 
57 ;  Lakes,  Tour  of,  58. 

Isthmus,  Backbone  of  the,  i77. 

Ii^thmu3  Canal  Survey,  172. 

Isthmus  lite,  161. 

Italy,  United,  13. 

Ivy  stems,  38. 


Jacobite  old  Lady,  35. 

Jackson,  Mr,,  156. 

Jackson's  Prairie,  155. 

Janiculmr.,  Mt.,  48. 

Japanese,  180. 

Jay's  Treaty,  28. 

Jesuit  Exiles,  118. 

Joaquin  River,  135. 

"John  Brent,"  163,  273,  274, 
275,  277,  279,  300. 

John  Bull,  36. 

John  Day's  River,  161. 

Johnson,  William  Tompleton, 
191. 

Johnson,  Samuel  WiUiam,  Pres. 
of  Columbia  College,  6. 

Jones,  Sir  Wui.  "Sacontala,"  23. 

Journey  with  Capt.  Brent  re- 
linquished, 146. 


Jupiter  Pan  Hellenns,  Temple 

of,  51. 
Jupiter  Olympus,  Temple  of,  52. 

K. 

Kansas,  197,  260. 
Kensett,  Mr.  J.,  91. 
Kindergarten,  10, 
Kirketall  Abbey,  38. 
Kyrle,  Mr.,  the  Man  of  Ross,  40. 


Laconia,  51. 

La  Popa,  176. 

Landing  treasure  from  Steam- 
ship Oregon,  108. 

Laramie,  Fort,  163. 

Law,  George,  his  company,  74. 

Lectures,  Two,  on  Adventure, 
and  Fine  Arts  in  America, 
191. 

Legation,  Sec'y  of,  43. 

Leghorn,  48. 

Legion  of  Honor,  45. 

Levy,  Colonel,  of  Louisiana,  293. 

•  'Life  in  the  Open  Air, ' '  260, 274. 

Lind,  Jenny,  25. 

Little  Bethel,  293. 

Lispenard,  Anthony,  4;  Cor- 
nelia, 4;  Leonard,  4. 

Llanos  of  tbe  Isthmus,  102. 

London,  81,  82;  driving  in,  42. 

Long  Island  Families,  4. 

Long  Wharf,  8. 

Louisiana  Rifleman,  293, 

Louis  Philippe's  portrait,  46. 

Louvre,  The,  44,  45. 

"Love  and  Skates,"  274,  277. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  274,302. 

Lowlands,  37. 

Lucca,  Baths  of,  58. 

Luggemel  Alley,  282. 

Lung'  Arno,  8. 

Lydian  Measures,  280. 

M. 

McLean's  letter,  extract,  297. 
Magruder,  General,  292,  293. 
Maine,  Tour  in,  260;  Lakes  of, 
261. 


1  i  ■  ^^   i'» 


INDEX. 


309 


aple 
r,52. 


,40. 


>am- 


,74. 

nre, 
rica, 


293. 
274. 


,42. 


16. 

277. 
302. 


)7. 
13. 
I  of, 


Malaprops,  211. 
Malta,  51. 
Manitou,  282. 
Manzanilla  Island,  123. 
Marathon,  52;  Plain  of,  53,  224. 
Marble  Fauu,  281. 
Margaret,  276. 
Marietta,  Ohio,  15,  19. 
Marston,  John,  4;  Alice,  4. 
Mary  Dam  or,  278. 
Mazzini,  13. 
Megara,  54. 
Meltose,  35. 
Memp)\reuiagog,  262. 
Merchants  of  New  York,  3. 
Merle  d'Aubigne,  83. 
]\Ie.ssina,  50. 
Mexico,  22,  136. 
Milan  Cathedral,  58. 
Mill's  Logic,  21. 
Miller,  Joaqnin,  274. 
Milman's  Nala  and  Dauiavauta, 

23.  ^ 

Miltiados,  Trophies  of,  65. 
Mines  of  California  and  Oregon, 

150. 
Modern  Painters,  23. 
Mona  Passage,  173. 
Mont  Blanc,  Tour  of,  GO;  view 

of,  60. 
Monte  Kosa,  Tour  of,  60. 
Monterey,  130,  131. 
Monticello,  155. 
Morea,  53. 
Morley's,  33. 
Mormons,  143, 
Mosquito  Question,  42. 
Mound  Prairies,  156. 
Mount  Desert,  191,  192,  260. 
Murray,  John,  47. 

N. 
Naples,  2,  50. 
Napoleon  I.,  87. 
Napoleon,  Louis,  25,  46,  197. 
Nauplia,  54. 
Navy,  Sec'y  of,  180. 
New  England,  3,  5,  8;  Dame 

School,  9. 
New  Granada,  177. 


New  Haven,  7,  8, 12. 15,  86, 191. 
New  Haven  Cemetery,  299. 
New  Haven,  England,  32. 
New  York,  3,  4,  7,  13,  73,  113, 

118, 119, 124,  132, 172,  173, 

189,  264,  275,  284. 
New  Rochelle,  Settlement  of,  4. 
Nez  Perce'es  Indians,  162. 
Niagara  Falls,  76. 
Nice,  58. 
Nichol,    Prof.  John,   on  Win- 

throp's  writings,  278,  279. 
Nisqually,  Fort,  155,  157,  160. 
North  Carolina,  297;  drummer, 

292. 
North  East  Trades,  The,  173. 

0. 

Obsequies,  299. 

Ogdeu,  Governor,  143, 149, 154. 

Ohio,  15;  the  Steamer,  124. 

Old  Olive  Trees,  53. 

Olympia,  156. 

Onofrio,  St.,  Cliurch  of,  49. 

Oregon,  140,  M9,  154;  Land 
Ownership,  141 ;  Beauty  of, 
147;  Mineo,  150;  Women 
of,  152;  Lumber  Trade  of, 
137;  Old  Settlers  in,  151. 

Oxford,  40,  281. 

P. 

Pacific  Coast,  138,  140;  Mail 
S.S.  Co.,  72,  92,  94;  Ocean, 
21,  184,  187,  190. 

Padiham,  276. 

Padua,  56. 

Paley's  Works,  17. 

Panama,  92,  93,  125,  176;  Cli- 
mate of,  100,  101,  106;  Cos- 
tumein  Churches,  113  ;L./e, 
94,  97,  98,  99:  Ruins,  102; 
Suburbs,  103  ;R.  II.  Co.,  172. 

Parks  and  Seats,  English,  39. 

Paris,  43,  46;  Rue  rUniversitd, 
64. 

Parnassus,  55. 

Parsons,  Theophilus,  278. 

Pedro  Gomez,  75. 

Pellioo,  Silvio,  13. 


310 


INDEX. 


Penonomd,  117. 

Pcntelicns,  52. 

Percy's  Ileliques,  14. 

Pericles,  52. 

Peru,  22. 

Pestallozzi,  10. 

Peter  Parley's  Geography,  11. 

Pfatfers,  Ba'ths  of,  60. 

Piazza  cli  8an  Marco,  56. 

Pickwick  Club,  39. 

Pierce,  General,  296. 

Pigeon  English,  155. 

Pike  County  Men,  153. 

Pindar,  25. 

Piraeus,  9,  51. 

Pisa,  58. 

Pistoja,  58. 

Po(!njH,  7i<:i>7j/,— Dash,  Dash! 
66;  Northern  Lights,  67; 
Defeat,  68;  Waiting,  69; 
Fragments,  70,  71 ;  On  the 
Beach,  78;  Doubt,  80;  Na- 
poleon at  St.  Helena,  87; 
Katherine  Teresa,  88 ;  Frag- 
ment, 90;  Moonlight,  164; 
Forest  Fire,  165;  Fire  Up, 
165;  Prose  Fragment,  166; 
Fragments,  167,  168;  The 
East  and  the  West,  169; 
192;  193;  194;  195;  Frag- 
ments, 26.3.  iore,— ToOne 
J.  Know,  265;  Homage,  266; 
Love  Comes,  267;  Song, 
268;  Her  Voice,  269;  Son- 
net, Sonnet,  270;  Hopes, 
271;FMis,272;7'*ooTFoWds-, 
Part  I. ,  Grief,  198-206 ;  Part 
II.,  Departure,  206-227; 
Part  III.,  Passion,  227- 
243;  Part  IV.,  Penance, 
243-251;  Part  V.,  Love, 
251-259 

Porter,  Prof.,  of  Yale,  16,  299. 

Portland,  Oregon,  137, 139, 142, 
150,  154. 

Port  Oxford,  138. 

Presbyterians,  Old  School,  3. 

President,  The  Ship,  175. 

Press  Notices,  293,  294,  295, 
296. 


Puget  Sound,  155. 
"Punch,"  The  London,  42. 
Puritans,  The,  4. 

Quinippiac  liiver,  <". 

K. 

Railroad,  The  great  Pacific,  150. 
Kainer,  Mt.,  139, 156,  J57;  Tow.m 

of,  139. 
Raphael,  228,  230. 
Red  School  House,  262. 
Red  wood  trees,  137. 
Revolutionary  War,  5,  275. 
Rhine  River,  59;  Valley,  60. 
"Richmond  Dispatch,"  296. 
Ripon,  38. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  161. 
Riviera  di  Ponente,  58. 
Robespierre,  25. 
Rome,  Capitol  of,  48;  Carnival 

of,   47;  Campagna  of,  48; 

Forum  of,  48;  Modern,  49. 
"Rowing  against  Tide,"  282. 
Rowse,  Samuel,  his  portrait  of 

Winthrop,  265. 
Rugby,  41. 
Ruskin,  18,  41. 

S. 

Sacramento  River,  135. 

Salamis,  51 ;  Bay  of,  54. 

Salem,  150,  152. 

Salmon-feasting,  160;  falls,  162. 

Salt  Lake,  160,  162;  City,  103; 
valley,  162. 

Salute,  Church  of,  56. 

San  Diego,  130. 

San  Francisco,  City  of,  130; 
Bay  of,  131;  activity  of, 
132;  climate  of,  133;  sub- 
urbs of,  134. 

San  Giorgio,  56. 

San  Miguel,  177,  Gulf  of,  187. 

San  Stefano,  48. 

"Sartor  Resartus,"  25. 

Seward's  letters  to  Dayton,  287. 

Scholarships,,  17,  18. 

Schools  at  Nijon,  etc.,  83. 


i 


INDEX. 


311 


School  of  Mr.   Silas   French. 

13,  19. 
Scotland,  36, 
Scottsburg,  149,  153. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  14,  35. 
Sea  Kings,  4. 
Secession  Army,  291, 
Seventh  Regiment,  The,  284; 
March   of   the,    285;    Re- 
turn of,  286;  Guard  of  the, 
299, 
Seward,  William  H.,  287. 
bhaw,  Francis  George,  283. 
Shaw,  Robert  G.,  284,  301. 
Sheffield,  35. 
Ship  Canal,   Prospecting  for, 

181,  182,  183. 
Shoshouee  Indians,  162. 
Sicily,  50;  Siena,  57. 
Skerrett,  Peter,  277. 
Skye,  Island  of,  36. 
Smallpox,  attack  of,  145. 
Snake  River,  162. 
Society  for  Prevention  of  Cru- 
elty to  Children,  4. 
South  Pass,  162. 
Southey,  Robert,  14,  18. 
Spanish  Commerce,  Old,  178. 
Spenser's  "Faerie  Queen,"  14. 
Spliigen  Pass,  59. 
Staffa,  Island  of,  36. 
Staten  Island,  65,  72,  74,   92. 

191,  284. 
Steers  Flotsam,  282. 
Steilacoon,  U.  S.  Fort,  157. 
Stirling  Castle,  37. 
Stoningers,  The,  282. 
St.  Catherine's  Light,  32. 
St.  Gervais,  Baths  of,  62. 
St.  Helen's,  Mount,  138,  139, 

150,  J  54.  156. 
St.  Louis,  143,  160,  262,  264. 
St.  Nicholas  Magazine,  282. 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  33. 
St.  Peter's,  at  Rome,  49. 
Strain,    Lieut.    Edward,    172, 

184,  189,  190. 
Stratford-on-Avon,  38. 
Streets,  Anthony,  Leonard,  and 
Lispenard,  4. 


Stump  Speeches  in  Maine,  262; 

on  Staten  Island,  263. 
Suisun  Bay,  135. 
Sumter,  Fort,  284. 
Summers,  Doctor,  146. 
Sunium,  51. 

Swiss  Journey,  Second,  74. 
Switzerland,  59. 
Syria,  224. 

T. 

Taboga,   Island  of,    100,   104, 
107,  108. 

Tacoma,  the  less,  101. 

Tancred,  50,  225. 

Tasso,  50,  225. 

Tennessee,  the  Steamer,  Loss 
of,  131. 

Tennyson's  Poems,  26. 

Thackeray,  W.  M,,  277. 

Thermopylae,  55. 

Thoreau,  Henry,  13,  281 

Ticknor  &  Fields,  282. 

Tidal  Observations,  157. 

Titian,  228. 

Titus,  Mr.  George,  191. 

Toad  Hill,  Staten  Island,  View 
from,  77,  78. 

Tolmie,  Doctor,  157. 

Tomb  of  the  Athenians,  53. 

Tongue  Point,  138. 

Toothaker,  Mr.,  261. 

Tour  of  Mt.  Blanc,  60;  Monte 
Rosa,  60;  Germany,  Hol- 
land, and  Belgium,  63. 

Townshend,  General,  296. 

Tractariau  Movement,  41. 

Tracy,  Mr,  Charles,  105,  190, 
191,  260, 

Trees,  7. 

Tribune,  The,  New  York,  293, 
297,  298,  299. 

TroUope,  Anthony,  277. 

Tropical  night,  122;  twilight, 
120.  ^ 

Tropics,  The,  92. 
Trowbridge,  Captain,  157. 
Troy,  224. 
Tualtin  plains,  153. 
Turin,  58. 


312 


INDEX 


m 


Twelfth  night,  177. 
Twentyman,  Name  of,  37. 
Typical  Pioneer,  141. 
Tyre  and  Sidon,  19. 

U. 

Umatilla  River,  161. 
Umpqua  River,  150,  153,  27G. 
United  Italy,  13. 
United  States,  The  Steamer,  93. 
Unter  den  Linden,  8. 
Upjohn,  Ricliard,  296 
Utah  Landscape,  162. 

V. 

Vacation  Tour,  76. 

Vancouver's  Island,  M-l,   147, 
149,  153,  157,  177. 

Vandykes  in  Genoa,  48. 

Vatican  Museum,  The,  49. 

Venice,  55,  242. 

Vermont,  Volunteer,  A   203. 

Vernet,  Horace,  47. 

Veronese,  Paul,  228. 

Verona  and  cities  of  North  ^ 
aly,  57. 

Vesuvius,  50. 

Via  Mala,  59. 

Vice  Royal  Palace,   of  Carta- 
gena, 177. 

Victor  Emanuel,  13. 

Victoria,    Vancouver's  Island, 
lt.7. 

Virago,   British  Man  of  War, 
177,  180. 

Virginian  Slave  Holder,  289. 

Voyage  to  Europe,  Second,  80. 


W. 


Waddy's,    Mr.,    Return, 

9U>2 

Wade,  Richard,  277. 
Waller,  Captain,  144. 
War,  Civil,  1,  279,  280. 
Washington,  286,  290. 
Washington  as  a  camp, 

288. 

Watch  returned,  297. 
Webster's  Spelling  Book,  11 
Westxniuster  Abbey,  33. 


192, 


285, 


West  Point,  294. 

Weston,  Theodore,  298. 

West  "Stingys,"  8. 

Whittier,  J.  G.,  ."^Ol. 

Willamette  River,  139,  141, 
142,  276. 

Willamette  valley,  150,151, 152, 
153. 

Winchester,  153. 

Wine  Making,  84. 

Winthrop's  Good-bye,  288. 

Winthrop,  Charles  Archibald, 
18. 

Winthrop,  Rev.  Edward,  15, 19. 

Winthrop,  Francis  Bayard,  2, 
6,  12;  ftimily  of,  3. 

Winthrop,  Mrs.  Francis  Bay- 
ard, 297. 

Winthrop,  John,  First  Gov- 
ernor of  Massachusetts,  2. 

Winthrop,  John,  First  Gov- 
ernor of  Connecticut,  2; 
Second  Governor  of  Con- 
necticut, 2. 

Winthrop,  Judge  Wait  Still,  3. 

Winthrop,  Professor,  at  Har- 
vard, 3. 

Winthrop,  Robert  Charles,  5. 

Winthrop,  Theodore,  elder 
brother,  9. 

Winthrop,  Theodore,  his  birth, 
2;  his  father,  2;  his  de- 
scent, 3;  his  mother,  3; 
his  family  history,  3-6; 
first  school  days,  9;  enters 
college,  15;  Greek  compo- 
sition, 15:  religious  expe- 
rience, 16;  graduation,  16; 
his  journal  begins,  17; 
study,  18;  his  twenty-sec- 
ond birthday,  18;  first 
love,  20;  early  dreams,  22; 
choice  of  a  profession,  28; 
loss  of  health,  27;  the 
remedy,  30;  departure  for 
Europe,  31 ;  attache  to  the 
embassy,  42;  home  again, 
65;  manhood,  72;  with  the 
steamship  company,  73; 
a  tale  of  revenge,  75;  his 


INDEX. 


813 


Winthrop.Theo.,  continued. 
twenty-third  birthday,  80; 
in  Europe  again,  81;  first 
dreams  of  authorship,  85, 
arrival  in  Panama,  97; 
landing  gold,  105;  the  gold 
train,  10*,^;  excursion  into 
the  interior,  115;  discour- 
aged, 125;  on  a  hand  car, 
r2o;  starts  for  San  Fran- 
cisco, 128-129 ;  impressions 
of  San  Francisco,  131 ;  on 
the  Pacific  coast,  138;  wild 
life,  157;  return  home, 
161;  •'  The  Canoe  and  the 
Saddle,"  162;  with  Darien 
Expedition;  172;  explor- 
ing, 183-184;  search  for 
Lieut.  Strain,  185;  admis- 
sion to  the  New  York 
Bar,  160;  stump  speeches, 
261-262;  Authorship,  273. 
his  works,  275 ;  incomplete 
tales,  282;  the  war,  283; 
parting,  284:  the  Seventh 
Regiment,  285;  Fortress 
Monroe,  288;  his  last  let- 
ters,  289,  290-291;  Great 


Wiuthrop.Theo.,  continued. 
Bethel,  292-296;  appointed 
First  Lieut.,  290;  letters 
concerning  his  watch,  297; 
his  burial,  299;  commem- 
oration ode,  302. 

Winthrop,  Thomas  Lindall,  6. 

Winthrop,  Col.   William,  191, 
284,  298. 

Woolsey,  Benjamin,  3. 

Woolsey,  Elizabeth  Dwight,  3. 

Woolsey,  Dr.  Theodore  D,  5, 
14,  16,  21,  284. 

Woolsey,  William  Walton,  3. 

Woodbury,  Conn.,  43. 

Wooster  St.,  New  Haven,  7. 

Worcester,  Mass.,  27. 

Wordsworth,  William,  18. 

% 

Yale  College,  3,  6,  12,  19. 
Yale  students,  299. 
Yamhill  County,  Oregon,  153. 
Yankee,  the  Steamer,  292. 
York,  35. 
Yorktown,  295. 
Youcalla,  153. 
Young,  Brigham,  162. 


